On war

Google

This is a digital copy of a book that was preserved for generations on library shelves before it was carefully scanned by Google as part of a project

to make the world's books discoverable online.

It has survived long enough for the copyright to expire and the book to enter the public domain. A public domain book is one that was never subject

to copyright or whose legal copyright term has expired. Whether a book is in the public domain may vary country to country. Public domain books

are our gateways to the past, representing a wealth of history, culture and knowledge that's often difficult to discover.

Marks, notations and other maiginalia present in the original volume will appear in this file - a reminder of this book's long journey from the

publisher to a library and finally to you.

Usage guidelines

Google is proud to partner with libraries to digitize public domain materials and make them widely accessible. Public domain books belong to the
public and we are merely their custodians. Nevertheless, this work is expensive, so in order to keep providing tliis resource, we liave taken steps to
prevent abuse by commercial parties, including placing technical restrictions on automated querying.
We also ask that you:

+ Make non-commercial use of the files We designed Google Book Search for use by individuals, and we request that you use these files for
personal, non-commercial purposes.

+ Refrain fivm automated querying Do not send automated queries of any sort to Google's system: If you are conducting research on machine
translation, optical character recognition or other areas where access to a large amount of text is helpful, please contact us. We encourage the
use of public domain materials for these purposes and may be able to help.

+ Maintain attributionTht GoogXt "watermark" you see on each file is essential for in forming people about this project and helping them find
additional materials through Google Book Search. Please do not remove it.

+ Keep it legal Whatever your use, remember that you are responsible for ensuring that what you are doing is legal. Do not assume that just
because we believe a book is in the public domain for users in the United States, that the work is also in the public domain for users in other
countries. Whether a book is still in copyright varies from country to country, and we can't offer guidance on whether any specific use of
any specific book is allowed. Please do not assume that a book's appearance in Google Book Search means it can be used in any manner
anywhere in the world. Copyright infringement liabili^ can be quite severe.

About Google Book Search

Google's mission is to organize the world's information and to make it universally accessible and useful. Google Book Search helps readers
discover the world's books while helping authors and publishers reach new audiences. You can search through the full text of this book on the web

at|http: //books .google .com/I

^,

•I*

1.

k

I

V

• «

)

• •

_y

0

*

I.

I

V •

>».

rE

t

n

I

ON WAR;

GENERAL CARL VON CLAUSEWITZ

T&AKSIATZD BY

COLONEL J. J. GRAHAM,

FEOM THE THIRD GEEMAN EDITION.

THBZBI VOLtnCES OOMPUDTB IN OUB.

LONDON:
N. TEIJBNEB & CO., 57 & 59, LUDGATE HILL.

1873.

^3/. ^ ?/.

LONDON :

rniVTSD BT WBKTIIKniEB, LBA AND CO.,

riNSBURT ClUOL'S.

PREFACE

TO THE FIRST EDITION.

It will naturally excite surprise that a preface by a female hand should accom-
pany a work on such a subject as the present. For my friends no explanation
of the circumstance is required ; but I hope by a simple relation of the cause to
clear myself of the appearance of presumption in the eyes also of those to whom
I am not known.

The work to which these lines serve as a preface occupied almost entirely
the last twelve years of the life of my inexpressibly beloved husband, who has
unfortunately been torn too soon from myself and my country. To complete
it, was his most earnest desire; but it was not his intention that it should
be published during his life ; and if I tried to persuade him to alter that inten-
tion, he often answered, half in jest, but also, perhaps, half in a foreboding
of early death : " Thou shalt publish it.^' These words (which in those happy
days often drew tears from me, little as I was inclined to attach a serious mean-
ing to them) make it now, in the opinion of my friends, a duty incumbent on
me to introduce the posthumous works of my beloved husband, with a few
prefatory lines from myself; and although there may be a difference of opinion
on this point, still I am sure there will be no mistake as to the feeling which
has prompted me to overcome the timidity which makes any such appearance,
even in a subordinate part^ so difficult for a woman.

It will be understood, as a matter of course, that I cannot have the most
remote intention of considering myself as the real editress of a work which is
far above the scope of my capacity : I only stand at its side as an affectionate
companion on its entrance into the world. This position I may well cLiim, as
a similar one was allowed me during its formation and progress. Those who
are acquainted with our happy married life, and know how we shared every^
thing with each other— not only joy and sorrow, but also every occupation,
every interest of daily life — will imderstand that my beloved husband could not
be occupied on a work of this kind without its being known to me. Therefore,
no one can like me bear testimony to the zeal, to the love with which he
laboured on it, to the hopes which he bound up with it, as well as the manner
and time of its elaboration. His richly gifted mind had from his eaily youth

IV PHEFACE.

longed for light and truth, and varied as were his talents, still he had chiefly
directed his reflections to the science of war, to which the duties of his profes-
sion called him, and which are of such importance for the benefit of states.
Scharnhorst was the first to lead him into the right road, and his subsequent
appointment in 1810 as Instructor at the General War School, as well as the
honour conferred on him at the same time, of giving military instruction to
H.R.H. the Crown Prince, tended further to give his investigations and studies
that direction, and to lead him to put down in writing whatever conclusions he
arrived at. A paper with which he finished the instruction of H.R.H. the
Crown Prince contains the germ of his subsequent works. But it was in the
year 1816, at Coblentz, that he first devoted himself again to scientific labours
and to collecting the fruits which his rich experience in those four eventful
years had brought to maturity. He wrote down his views in the first place, in
short essays, only loosely connected with each other. The following, without
date, which has been found amongst his papers, seems to belong to those early
days.

" In the principles here committed to paper, in my opinion, the chief
things which compose strategy, as it is called, are touched upon. I looked
upon them only as materials, and had just got to such a length towards the
moolding them into a whole.

" These materials have been amassed without any regularly preconceived
plan. My view was at first, without regard to system and strict connection, to
put down the results of my reflections upon the most important points in quite
brief, precise, compact propositions. The manner in which Montesquieu has
treated his subject, floated before me in idea. I thought that concise, senten-
tious chapters, which I proposed at first to call grains, would attract the
attention of the intelligent just as much by that which was to be developed from
them, as by that which they contained in themselves. I had therefore before
me in idea, intelligent readers already acquainted with the subject. But my
nature, which always impels me to development and sy stoma tising, at last
worked its way out also in this instance. For some time I was able to confine
myself to extracting only the most important results from the essays, which, to
s^ttain clearness and conviction in my own mind, I wrote upon difierent subjects,
to concentrating in that manner their spirit in a small compass ; but afterwards
my peculiarity gained ascendency completely — I have developed what I could,
and thus naturally have supposed a reader not yet acquainted with the subject.

" The more I advanced with the work, and the more I yielded to the spirit
of investigation, so much the more I was also led to system ; and thus, then,
chapter aft^ chapter has been inserted.

PREFACE.

" My ultimate view has now been to go through the whole once more, to
establish by further explanation much of the earlier treatises, and perhaps to
condense into results many analyses on the later ones, and thus to make a
moderate whole out of it, forming a small octavo volume. But it was my wish
also in this to avoid everything common, everything that is plain of itself,
that has been said a hundred times, and is generally accepted ; for my ambition
was to write a book that would not be forgotten in two or three years, and
which any one interested in the subject would at all events take up more than

once."

In Coblenz, where he was much occupied with duty, he could only give
occasional hours to his private studies. It was not until 1818, after his appoint-
ment as Director of the General Academy of War at Berlin, that he had the
leisure to expand his work, and enrich it from the history of modem wars.
This leisure also reconciled him to his new avocation, which, in other respects,
was not satisfactory to him, as,- according to the existing organisation of the
Academy, the scientific part of the course is not under the Director, but con«
ducted by a Board of Studies. Free as he was from all petty vanity, from
every feeling of restless, egotistical ambition, still he felt a desire to be really
useful, and not to leave inactive the abilities with which God had endowed him.
In active life he was not in a position in which this longing could be satisfied,
and he had little hope of attaining to any such position : his whole energies
were therefore directed upon the domain of science, and the benefit which he
hoped to lay the foundation of by his work was the object of his life. That,
notwithstanding this, the resolution not to let the work appear until after his
death became more confirmed, is the best proof that no vain, paltry longing for
praise and distinction, no particle of egotistical views, was mixed up with this
noble aspiration for great and lasting usefulness.

Thus he worked diligently on, until, in the spring of 1830, he was appointed
to the artillery, and his energies were called into activity in such a different
sphere, and to such a high degree, that he was obliged, for the present at
least, to give up all literary work. He then put his papers in order, sealed up
the separate packets, labelled them, and took sorrowful leave of this employ^
ment which he loved so much. He was sent to Breslau in August of the same
year, as Chief of the Second Artillery District, but in December recalled to
Berlin, and appointed Chief of the Staff to Field Marshal Count Gneisenau
(for the term of his conmiand). In March, 1831, he accompanied his revered
Commander to Posen. When he returned from there to Breslau in November
after the melancholy event which had taken place, he hoped to resume his
work, and perhaps complete it in the course of the winter. The Almighty

VI PREFACE.

has willed it should be otherwise. On the 7th November, he returned to
Breslau ; on the 16th he was no more ; and the packets sealed by himself were
not opened until after his death.

The papers thus left are those now made public in the following volumes,
exactly in the condition in which they were found, without a word being added
or erased. Still, however, there was much to do before publication, in the way
of putting them in order and consulting about them ; and I am deeply indebted
to several sincere friends for the assistance they have afforded me, particularly
Major 0*Etzel, who kindly undertook the correction of the Press, as well as the
preparation of the maps to accompany the historical parts of the work. I
must also mention my much-loved brother, who was my support in the hour
of my misfortune, and who has also done much for me in respect of these
papers; amongst other things, by carefully examining and putting them in
order, he foimd the commencement of the revision which my dear husband
wrote in the year 1827, and mentions in the Notice hereafter annexed, as a work
he had in view. This revision has been inserted in the place intended for it
in the first book (for it does not go any further).

There are still many other friends to whom I might offer my thanks for
their advice, for the sympathy and friendship which they have shown me ;
but if I do not name them all, they will, I am sure, not have any doubts
of my sincere gratitude. It is all the greater, from my firm conviction that
all they have done was not only on my own account, but for the friend whom
Ood has thus called away from them so soon.

If I have been highly blessed as the wife of such a man during one-and-
twenty years, so am I still, notwithstanding my irreparable loss, by the treasure
of my recollections and of my hopes, by the rich legacy of sympathy and
friendship which I owe the beloved departed, by the elevating feeling which
I experience at seeing his rare worth so generally and honourably acknow-
ledged.

The trust confided to me by a royal couple is a fresh benefit for which I
have to thank the Almighty, as it opens to me an honourable occupation, to
which I cheerfully devote myself. May this occupation be blessed, and may
the dear little Prince who is n9w entrusted to my care, some day read this book,
and be animated by it to deeds like those of his glorious ancestors.

Written at the Marble Palace, Potsdam, 30th June, 1832.

MARIE VON CLAUSEWITZ,

horn Countess Briihl,
Oberhofmeisterinn to II.R.H. the Princess William.

NOTICE.

I LOOK upon the £arst six books, of which a fair copy has now been made, as only
a mass which is still in a manner without form, and which has yet to be again
revised. In this reyision the two kinds of war will be everywhere kept more
distinctly in view, by which all ideas will acquire a clearer meaning, a more precise
direction, and a closer application. The two kinds of war are, first, those in which
the object is the overthrow of the enemy ^ whether it be that we aim at his destructioni
politically, or merely at disarming him and forcing him to conclude peace on oux
terms ; and next, those in which our object is merely to make some conquesta on the
frontiers of his country, either for the purpose of retaining them permanently, or of
turning them to account as matter of exchange in the settlement of a peace. Transi-
tion from one kind to the other must certainly continue to exist, but the completely
different nature of the tendencies of the two must everywhere appear, and must
separate from each other things which are incompatible.

Besides establishing this real difference in wars, another practically necessary
point of view must at the same time be established, which is, that war is only a
continuation of state policy by other means. This point of view being adhered to
everywhere, will introduce much more unity into the consideration of the subject, and
things will be more easily disentangled from each other. Although the chief appli-
cation of this point of view does not commence until we get to the eighth book, still
it must be completely developed in the first book, and also lend assistance throughout
the revision of the first six books. Through such a revision the first six books
will get rid of a good deal of dross, many rents and chasms will be closed up, and
much that is of a general nature will be transformed into distinct conceptions and
forms.

The seventh book — on attack — for the different chapters of which sketches are
already made, is to be considered as a reflection of the sixth, and must be completed
at once, according to the above-mentioned more distinct points of view, so that it
wiU require no fresh revision, but rather may serve as norm in the revision of the
first six books.

Vlll NOTICE.

For the eighth book — on the Plan of a war, that is, of the organisation of a
whole war in general — seyeral chapters are planned, but they are not at all to be
regarded as real materials, they are merely a track, roughly deared, as it were,
through the mass, in order by that means to ascertain the points of most importance.
They have answered this object, and I propose, on finishing the seventh book, to
proceed at once to the working out of the eighth, where the two points of yiew
above-mentioned will be chiefly affirmed, by which everything will be simplified,
and at the same time have a spirit breathed into it. I hope in this book to iron
out many creases in the heads of strategists and statesmen, and at least to show
the object of action, and the real point to be considered in war.

Now, when I have brought my ideas clearly out by finishing this eigh(;h book,
and have properly established the leading features of war, it will be easier for me
to carry the spirit of these ideas into the first six books, and to make these same
features show themselves everywhere. Therefore I shall defer till then the re-
vision of the first six books.

Should the work be interrupted by my death, then what is found can only be
called a mass of conceptions not brought into form ; but as these are open to end-
less misconceptions, they will doubtless give rise to a number of crude criticisms :
for, in these things, every one thinks, when he takes up his pen, that whatever
comes into his head is worth saying and printing, and quite as incontrovertible as
that twice two make four. If such an one would take the pains, as I have done,
' to think over the subject, for years, and to compare his ideas with military history,
he would certainly be a little more guarded in his criticism.

Still, notwithstanding this imperfect form, I believe that an impartial reader,
thirsting for truth and conviction, will rightly appreciate in the first six books
the fruits of several years* reflection and a diligent study of war, and that, perhaps,
he will find in them some leading ideas which may bring about a revolution in the
theory of war.

Berlin, lO^A Jtify, 1827.

Besides this notice, amongst the papers left, was found the following un-
finished memorandum, which appears of very recent date : —

The manuscript on the conduct of the Grande Guerre, which will be found
after my death, in its present state can only be regarded as a collection of
materials from which it is intended to construct a theory of war. With the greater
part I am not yet satisfied ; and the sixth book is to be looked at as a mere essay :
I should have completely remodelled it, and have tried a different line.

NOTICE. IX

But the ruling principles which pervade these materials 1 hold to be the right
ones : they are the result of a very yaried reflection, keeping always in view the
reality, and always bearing in mind what I have learnt by experience and by my
intercourse with distinguished soldiers.

The seventh book is to contain the attack, the subjects of which are thrown
together in a hasty manner : the eighth, the plan for a war, in which I would have
examined war more especially in its political and human aspects.

The first chapter of the first book is the only one which I consider as
completed ; it will at least serve to show the manner in which I proposed to treat
the subject throughout.

The theory of the Grande Gtierre, or strategy, as it is ccJled, is beset with extra-
ordinary difficulties, and we may affirm that very few men have dear conceptions
of the separate subjects, that is, conceptions carried up to the necessary in logical
connection. In real action most men are guided merely by the tact of judgment
which hits the object more or less accurately, according as they possess more or
less genius.

This is the way in which all great generals have acted, and therein partly lay
their greatness and their genius, that they always hit upon what was right by this
tact. Thus also it will always be in action, and so far this tact is amply sufficient.
But when it is a question, not of acting oneself, but of convincing others in a
consultation, then all depends on clear conceptions and demonstration of the inherent
relations, and so little progress has been made in this respect, that most delibera-
tions are merely a contention of words, resting on no firm basis, and ending either
in every one retaining his own opinion, or in a compromise from mutual con-
siderations of respect, a middle course, really without any value.

Clear ideas on these matters are therefore not wholly useless; besides, the
human mind has a general tendency to clearness, and always wants to be consistent
with the necessary order of things.

Owing to the great difficulties attending a philosophical construction of the art
of war, and the many attempts at it that have failed, most people have come to the
conclusion that such a theory is impossible, because it concerns things which no
standing law can embrace. We should also join in this opinion and give up any
attempt at a theory, were it not that a great number of propositions make them-
selves evident without any difficulty, as, for instance, that the defensive form, with
a negative object, is the stronger form, the attack with the positive object, the weaker
—that great restilts ccurry the little ones with them — that, therefore, strategic effects
may be referred to certain centres of gravity — that a demonstration is a weaker
application of force than a real attack, that, therefore, there must be some speci al
reason for resorting to the former — that victory consists not merely in the conquest
on the field of battle, but in the destruction of armed forces, physically and

X NOTICR.

morally, which, can in general only be effected by a pursuit after the battle is
gained ~ that successes are always greatest at the point where the Tictory has been
gained, that, therefore, the change from one line and object to another can only be
regarded as a necessary evil— that a turning movement is only justified by a supe-
riority of numbers generally or by the advantage of our lines of communication
and retreat over those of the enemy — that flank positions are only justifiable on
similar grounds— that every attack becomes weaker as it progresses.

INTEODUCTION OF THE AUTHOR

That the conception of the scientific does not consist alone, or cliieflj, in system,
and its finished theoretical constructions, requires now-a-dajs no exposition. . System
in this treatise is not to be found on the surface, and instead of a finished building
of theory, there are only materials.

The scientific form lies here in the endeavour to explore the nature of military
phenomena to show their affinity with the nature of the things of which they are
composed. Nowhere has the philosophical argument been evaded, but where it
runs out into too thin a thread the Author has preferred to cut it short, and fall
back upon the corresponding results of experience ; for in the same way as many
plants only bear fruit when they do not shoot too high, so in the practical arts the
theoretical leaves and flowers must not be made to sprout too far, but kept near to
experience, which is their proper soil.

Unquestionably it would be a mistake to try to discover from tiie chemical
ingredients of a grain of com the form of the ear of com which it bears, as we have •
only to go to the field to see the ears ripe. Investigation and observation, philosophy
and experience, must not despise one another or exclude one another ; they mutually
afford each other the rights of citizenship. Consequently, the propositions of this
book, with their arch of inherent necessity, are supported either by experience or by
the conception of war itself as external points, so that they are not without
abutments.*

It is, perhaps, not impossible to write a systematic theory of war full of spirit
and substance, but ours, hitherto, have been very much the reverse. To say nothing
of their unscientific spirit, in their striving after coherence and completeness of system,
they overflow with conmion places, truisms, and twaddle of eveiy kind. If we want a
striking picture of them we have only to read Lichtenberg's extract from a code
of reg^ations in case of fire.

If a house takes fire, we must seek, above all things, to protect the right side
of the house standing on the left, and on the other hand, the left side of the house
on the right ; for if we, for example, should protect the left side of the house on the
left, then the right side of the house lies to the right of the left, and consequently as

* That this is not the case in the works of many military writers especially of those who have aimed at
treating of war itself in a scientific manner, is shown in many instances, in which hy their reasoning, the
pro and contra swallow each other up so effectually that there Ib no vestige of tLe tails even which were
left in the case of the two Uons.

Xll INTRODUCTION.

the fire lies to the right of this side, and of the right side (for we have assumed that
the house is situated to the left of the fire), therefore the right side is situated nearer
to the fire than the left;, and the right side of the house might catch fire if it was not
protected before it came to the left which is protected. Consequently, something
might be burnt that is not protected, and that sooner than something else would be
burnt, even if it was not protected ; consequently we must let alone the latter, and
protect the former. In order to impress the thing on one's mind, we have only to
note if the house is situated to the right of the fire, then it is the left side, and if the
house is to the left it is the right side.

In order not to frighten the intelligent reader by such common places, and to
make the little good that there is distasteful by pouring water upon it, the Author
has preferred to give in small ingots of fine metal his impressions and convictions,
the result of many years reflection on war, of his intercourse with men of ability,
and of much personal experience. Thus the seemingly weakly-boimd-together
chapters of this book have arisen, but it is hoped they will not be found wanting
in logical connection. Perhaps soon a greater head may appear, and instead of
these single grains, give the whole in a casting of pure metal without dross.

BEIEF MEMOIR OF GENERAL CLAUSEWITZ.

(BY TRANSLATOR.)

The Axtthob of the work here translated, General Carl Yon dausewitz, was bom
at Burg, near Magdeburg, in 1780, and entered the Prussian army as Fahnen-
junker, in 1792. He served in the campaigns of 1793-94 on the Bhine,
after which he seems to have devoted some time to the study of the scientific
branches of his profession. In 1801, he entered the Military School at Berlin as
an ofiB.cer, and remained there till 1803. During his residence there he attracted
the notice of General Schamhorst, then at the head of the establishment ; and
the patronage of this distinguished of^cer may probably have hdd some in-
fluence on his future career. At all events, we may gather from his writings
that he ever afterwards continued to entertain a high esteem for Scharnhorst.
In the campaign of 1806, he served as Aide-de-camp to Prince Augustus of
Prussia ; and, being wounded and taken prisoner, he was sent into France until
the close of that war. On his retui*n, he was placed on General Schamhorst's
Staif, and employed in the work then going on for the re -organisation of the
army. He was also at this time selected as military instructor to the late King of
Prussia, then Crown Prince. In 1812, Clausewitz, with several other Prussian
officers, having entered the Bussian service, his first appointment was as Aide-
de-camp to General Phul. Afterwards, while serving with Wittgenstein's army,
he assisted in negotiating the famous convention with York. Of the part he
took in that affair he has left an interesting account in his work on the '' Bussian
Campaign." It is there stated that, in order to bring the correspondence which
had been carried on with York to a termination in one way or another, the
Author was despatched to York's head quarters with two letters, one was from
General d*Auvray, the Chief of the Staff of Wittgenstein's army, to General
Diebitsch, showing the arrangements made to cut off York's corps from Mac-
donald (this was necessary in order to give York a plausible excuse for seceding
from the French) ; the other was an intercepted letter from Macdonald to the
Duke of Bassano. With regard to the former of these, the Author says, **it

XIV BRIEF MEMOIR OF GENERAL CLAUSEWTTZ.

would not have had weight with a man like York, but for a military justifica-
tion, if the Prussian court should require one as against the French, it was
important."

The second letter was calculated at the least to call up in General York's mind
all the feelings of bitterness, which perhaps for some days past had been diminished
by the consciousness of his own behaviour towards the writer.

As the Author entered General York's chamber, the latter called out to him,

"Keep off from me; I will have nothing more to do with you; your d d

Cossacks have let a letter of Macdonald's pass through them, which brings me
an order to march on Piktrepohnen, in order there to effect our junction. All
doubt is now at an end ; your troops do not come up ; you are too weak ; march
I must, and I must excuse myself from all further negotiation, which may cost
me my head." The Author said that he would make no opposition to all this,
but begged for a candle, as he had letters to show the General ; and, as the latter
seemed still to hesitate, the Author added, " Your Excellency will not surely place
me in the embarrassment of departing without having executed my commission.
The General ordered candles, and called in Colonel Boeder, the chief of his staff,
from the ante-chamber. The letters were read. After a pause of an instant, the
General said, ** Clausewitz, you are a Prussian, do you believe that the letter
of General d'Auvray is sincere, and that Wittgenstein's troops will really be at
the points he mentioned on the 31st? " The Author replied, " I pledge myself for
the sincerity of this letter upon the knowledge I have of General d'Auvray
and the other men of Wittgenstein's head-quarters ; whether the dispositions
he announces can be accomplished as he lays down I certainly cannot pledge
myself; for your Excellency knows that in war we must often fall short of the line
we have drawn for ourselves." The General was silent for a few minutes of
earnest reflection ; then held out his hand to the Author, and said, " You have me.
Tell General Diebitsch that we must confer early to-morrow at the mill of
Poscherun, and that I am now firmly determined to separate myself from the
French and their cause." The hour was fixed for 8 a.m. After this was settled,
the General added, " But I will not do the thing by halves, I will get you Mas-
senbach also." He called in an officer who was of Massenbach's cavalry, and
who had just left them. Much like Schiller's Wallenstein, he asked, walking
up and down the room the while, '*What say your regiments?" The officer
broke put with enthusiasm at the idea of a riddance from the French alliance, and
said that every man of the troops in question felt the same.

** You young ones may talk ; but my older head is shaking on my shoulders,'
replied the General.*

• " Campaign in Russia in 1812 ; '* translated from the German of General Von ClausewiU (by Lard
EUesmere).

BRIEF MBMOIR OF OENBRAL CLAU8EWITZ. XV

After the close of the Bussiaii campaign dausewitz remained in the service
of that country, but was attached as a Bussian staff officer to Blucher's head-
quarters till the Armistice in 1813.

In 18l4y he became Ohief of the Staff of General Walmoden's Eusso-Gtorman
corps, which formed part of the army of the north under Bemadotte. His
name is frequently mentioned with distinction in that campaign, particularly in
connection with the affair of Gbehrde.

Glausewitz re-entered the Prussian service in 1815, and served as Chief of the
staff to Thielman's corps, which was engaged with Grouchy at Wavre, on the 18th of
June.

After the Peace, he was employed in a command on the Bhine. In 1818, he
became Major-General, and Director of the Military School at which he had been
previously educated.

In 1830, he was appointed Inspector of Artillery at Breslau, but soon after
nominated Chief of the Staff to the Army of Observation, under Marshal Gneisenau
on the Polish frontier.

The latest notices of his life and services are probably to be found in the
memoirs of General Brandt, who, from being on the staff of Gneisenau*s army, was
brought into daily intercourse with Clausewitz in matters of duty, and also
frequently met him at the table of Marshal Gneisenau, at Posen.

Amongst other anecdotes, General Brandt relates that, upon one occasion,
the conversation at the Marshal's table turned upon a sermon preached by a
priest, in which some great absurdities were introduced, and a discussion arose
as to whether the Bishop should not be made responsible for what the priest had
said. This led to the topic of theology in general, when General Brandt, speaking
of himself, says, ** I expressed an opinion that theology is only to be regarded
as an historical process, as a moment in the gradual development of the human
race. This brought upon me an attack from all quarters, but more especially
from Clausewitz, who ought to have been on my side, he having been an adherent
and pupil of Kiesewetter's, who had indoctrinated him in the philosophy of Kant,
certainly diluted, — I might even say, in homoeopathic doses." This anecdote is
only interesting as the mention of Kiesewetter points to a circumstance in the life of
Clausewitz that may have had an influence in forming those habits of thought which
distinguish his writings.

''The way," says General Brandt, "in which General Clausewitz judged of tilings,
drew conclusions from movements and marches, calculated the times of the marches,
and the points where decisions would take place was extremely interesting. Fate
has unfortunately denied him an opportunity of showing his talents in high com-
mand, but I have a firm persuasion that as a strategist he would have greatly
distinguished himself. As a leader on the field of battle, on the other hand, he

XVI BRIEF MEMOIR OF GENERAL CLAUSEWITZ.

would not have been so much in his right place, from a ** manque ePhahitude du
commandement," he wanted the art " d*enlever Us troupes.^'

After the Prussian Army of Observation was dissolved, Clausewitz returned to
Breslauy and a few days after his arrival was seized with cholera, the seeds of which
he must have brought with him from the army on the Polish frontier. Bis death
took place in November, 1831.

His writings are contained in nine volumes, published after his death, but
his fame rests most upon the three volumes forming his treatise on " War." In
the present attempt to render into English this portion of the works of Clausewitz,
the translator is sensible of many deficiencies, but he hopes at all events to succeed
in making this celebrated treatise better known in England, believing, as he does,
that so far as the work concerns the interests of this country, it has lost none of the
importance it possessed at th& time of its first publication.

ERRATA.

VOL I.

Page 13, line 4 from top of page, oolumn 2, /or subordniate tam^ subordinate.
33, „ 11 from top, column 2, for and Riflemen read or Rifleman.

»»
i»
»»
ff
»»
»»

»»

44, „ at top of "page, for Book I. r«ai Book II.

45, ,. 22 from top, column 1, be/ore adminifltration read and.

65, „ 17 from top, column 1, /or possibilities. If rea<^ possibilities ; if.

77, „ 7 from bottom, column 2, /or belief read feeling.

89, „ 3 friom bottom, column 1, befire circuitous read a.

109, „ 5 from bottom, column 2, a note at foUowe ehould have been supplied in connection with thin

passage : — *' See Cbaps. xiii. and xiv.. Book III., and Chap, zziz., Book Vl." — Tr.

133, „ 17 frt^m bottom, column 2, /or engage him in a sham fight read feign to give battle.

VOL. IL
Page 10, top line, column 2, omit him.
„ 12, line 4 from top, column 2, /or ban read spell.
„ 41, „ 18 from lx)ttom, column 2, omit teeond and.
102, „ 9 frx>m bottom, column 2, /or nulesis read miles is.
191, „ 2 from top, column 1, after Chapters insert Third Book.
191, „ 5 frt>m top, column 2, that is the resultant should be within parentheses.
191, „ 16 from top, column 2, /or yom read vom.

»♦
»»
t»

VOL. in.

Page 1, before Title, Book VII., reoif Sketches for.

n *•> »i If M Vlll., ,« ,,

„ 68, line 24 from top, column 1,/or actions read factions.

INDEX.
After Victory,/or Vol. IL read Vol. L, pages 130, 131, 146, 146, 147, 148, 161, 162.

ON WAR

VOL. I.

CONTENTS -VOL. I.

BOOK I.— ON THE NATURE OF WAR.

0H4F. AOB

I. What is War? 1

II. End and Means in War 14

III. The Genius for War 23

IV. Of Danger in War 36

V. Of Bodily Exertion in War 37

VI. Information in War 38

VII. FrictioninWar 39

VIII. Concluding Remarks, Book I. 41

BOOK II.— ON THE THEORY OF WAR.

I. Branches of the Art of War
II. On the Theory of War
III. Art or Science of War
IV. Methodicism .

V. Criticism
VI. On Examples .

43

48
61
63
67
80

I.
II.
III.
IV.
V.
VI.
VII.
VIII.
IX.
X.
XI.
XII.
XIII.
XIV.
XV.
XVI.
XVII.
XVIII.

BOOK III.-OF STRATEGY IN GENERAL.

Strategy ,85

Elements of Strategy r 90

Moral Forces ^91

The Chief Moral Powers 4 92

Military Virtue of an Army *593

Boldness 96

Perseverance 99

Superiority of Numbers ^ 100

The Surprise 103

Stratagem 106

Assembly of Forces in Space 108

Assembly of Forces in Tune 108

Strategic Reserve 113

Economy of Forces 115

Geometncal Element 115

On the Suspension of the Act in Warfare 117

On the Character of Modem War 120

Tension and Rest 121

CONTENTS. — VOL. I.
BOOK IV.— THE COMBAT.

CHAP. PAOS

I. Introductory 128

II. Character of the Modem Battle 123

III. The Combat in General 125

IV. The Combat in Greneral — Continuation 127

V. On the Signification of the Combat 132

VI. Duration of the Combat 134

VII. Decision of the Combat 136

VIII. Mutual Understanding as to a Battle 139

IX. General Action — Its Decision 141

X. Continuation — Effects of Victory 146

XI. Continuation— Use of the Battle 149

XII. Strategic Means of ntilising Victory 162

XIII. Retreat after a Lost Battle 169

ON W AR-

^

BOOK I - ON THE NATTJEE OF WM.

CHAPTER I.

WHAT IS WAR?

I. Introduction.

Wb propose to consider first the single
elements of our subject, then each branch
or part, and, last of all, the whole, in all
its relations — therefore to advance from
the simple to the complex. But it is ne-
cessary for us to commence with a glance
at the nature of the whole, because it is
particularly necessary that in the con-
sideration of any of the parts the whole
should be kept constantly in view.

2. Definition,

We shall not enter into any of the ab-
struse definitions of war used by public-
ists. We shall keep to the element of the
thing itself, to a duel. War is nothing
but a duel on an extensive scale. If we
would conceive as a unit the countless
number of duels which make up a war,
we shall do so best by supposing to our-
selves two wrestlers. Each strives by
physical force to compel the other to sub-
mit to his will: his first object is to
throw his adversary, and thus to render
him incapable of further resistance.

War ther$fore is an act of violence to com-
pel our opponent to fulfil our wiU.

Yiolonce arms itself with the inven-
tions of Art and Science in order to con-
tend against violence. Self-imposed
restrictions, almost imperceptible and
hardly worth mentioning, termed usages
of International Law, accompany it
without essentially impairing its power.
Violence, that is to say physical force
(for there is no mored force without
the conception of states and law),
is therefore the means; the compulsory
submission of the enemy to our wiU is
the ultimate object In order to attain
this object fully, the enemy must be dis*
armed ; and this is, correctly speaking,
the real aim of hostilities in theory. It
takes the place of the final object, and
puts it aside in a manner as something
not properly belonging to war.

3. Utmost use offeree.

Now, philanthropists may easily ima-
gine there is a skilful method of disarm-
ing and overcoming an enemy without
causing great bloodshed, and that this is
the proper tendency of the art of War.
However plausible this may appear, still

B

ON WAR,

[book I.

it is an error which must be extirpated ;
for in such dangerous things as war, the
errors which proceed from a spirit of
benevolence are just the worst. As the
use of physical power to the utmost ex-
tent by no means excludes the co-opera-
tion of the intelligence, it follows that he
who uses force unsparingly, without re-
ference to the quantity of bloodshed,
must obtain a superiority if his adversary
does not act likewise. By such means
the former dictates the law to the latter,
and both proceed to extremities, to which
the only lunitations are those imposed by
the amount of counteracting force on each
side.

This is the way in which the matter
must be viewed ; and it is to no purpose,
and even acting against one's own in-
terest, to turn away from the considera-
tion of the real nature of the affair, be-
cause the coarseness of its elements
excites repugnance.

K the wars of civilised people are less
cruel and destructive than those of
savages, the difference curises from the
Bocifd condition both of states in them-
selves and in their relations to each
other. Out of this social condition and
its relations war arises, and by it war is
subjected to conditions, is controlled and
modified. But these things do not be-
long to war itself ; they are only given
conditions ; and to introduce into the
philosophy of war itself a principle of
moderation would be an absurdity.

The fight between men consists really
of two different elements, the hostile
feeling and the hostile view. In our
definition of war, we have chosen as
its characteristic the latter of these
elements, because it is the most general.
It is impossible to conceive the pas-
sion of hatred of the wildest descrip-
tion, bordering on mere instinct, with-
out combining with it the idea of a
hostile intention. On the other hand,
hostile intentions may often exist without
being accompanied by any, or at all

events, by any extreme hostility of feel-
ing. Amongst savages views emanating
from the feelings, amongst civilised na-
tions those emanating ^m the under-
standing, have the predominance; but
this difference is not inherent in a state
of barbarism, and in a state of culture
in themselves it arises from attendant
circumstances, existing institutions, etc.,
and therefore is not to be found neces-
sarily in all cases, although it prevails
in the majority. In short, even the
most civilised nations may bum with pas-
sionate hatred of each other.

We may see from this what a fallacy
it would be to refer the war of a civilised
nation entirely to an intelligent act on
the part of the Government, and to ima-
gine it as continually freeing itself more
and more from all feeling of passion in
such a way that at last the physical
masses of combatants would no longer
be required ; in reality, their mere rela-
tions would suffice — a kind of algebraic
action.

Theory was beg^ning to drift in this
direction until the facts of the last war
taught it better. If war is an act of
force, it belongs necessarily also to the
feelings. If it does not originate in the
feelings, it re-acts more or less upon
them, and this more or less depends not
on the degree of civilisation, but upon
the importance and duration of the inte-
rests involved.

Therefore, if we find civilised nations
do not put their prisoners to death, do
not devastate towns and countries, this
is because their intelligence exercises
greater influence on their mode of carry-
ing on war, and has taught them more
effectual means of applying force than
these rude acts of mere instinct. The
invention of gunpowder, the constant
progress of improvements in the con-
struction of firearms are sufficient proofs
that the tendency to destroy the adver-
sary which lies at the bottom of the
conception of war, is in no way changed

CHAP. I.]

WHAT 18 WAR?

3

or modified through the progress of civi-
lisation.

We therefore repeat our proposition,
that war is an act of violence, which in
its application knows no bounds ; as one
dictates the law to the other, there
arises a sort of reciprocal action, which in
the conception, must lead to an extreme.
This is the first reciprocal action, and the
•first extreme with which we meet {first
reeiproeal action).

4.— TA^ aim is to disarm the enemy.

We have already said that the aim of
the action in war is to disarm the enemy,
and we shall now show that this in theo-
retical conception at least is necessary.

If our opponent is to be made to
comply with our will, we must place him
in a situation which is more oppressive
to him than the sacrifice which we
demand ; but the disadvantages of this
position must naturally not be of a tran-
sitory nature, at least in appearance,
otherwise the enemy, instead of yielding,
will hold out, in the prospect of a change
for the better. Every change in this
position which is produced by a continu-
ation of the war, should therefore be a
change for the worse, at least, in idea.
The worst position in which a belligerent
can be placed is that of being completely
disarmed. If, therefore, the enemy is to
be reduced to submission by an act of
war, he must either be positively dis-
armed or placed in such a position that
he is threatened with it according to pro-
bability. From this it follows that the
disarming or overthrow of the enemy,
whichever we call it, must always be the
aim of warfare. Now war is always the
shock of two hostile bodies in collision,
not the action of a living power upon
an inanimate mass, because an absolute
state of endurance would not be mak-
ing war ; therefore what we have just
said as to the aim of action in war
applies to both parties. Here then is

another case of reciprocal action. As
long as the enemy is not defeated, I
have to apprehend that he may defeat
me, then I shall be no longer my own
master, but he will dictate the law to
me as I did to him. This is the second
reciprocal action and leads to a second
extreme {second reeiproeal action).

5. — Utmost exertion of powers.

If we desire to defeat the enemy, we
must proportion our efforts to his powers
of resistance. This is expressed by the
product of two factors which cannot be
separated, namely, the sum of available
means and the strength of the wiU, The
sum of the available means may be
estimated in a measure, as it depends
(although not entirely) upon numbers;
but the strength of volition, is more
difficult to determine, and can only be
estimated to a certain extent by the
strength of the motives. Granted we
have obtained in this way an approxi-
mation to the strength of the power to
be contended with, we can then take a
review of our own means, and either
increase them so as to obtain a prepon-
derance, or in case we have not the
resources to effect this, then do our best
by increasing our means as far as pos-
sible. But the adversary does the same ;
therefore there is a new mutual en*
hancement, which in pure conception,
must create a fresh effort towards an
extreme. This is the third case of
reciprocal action, and a third extreme with
which we meet {third reciprocal action).

6. — Modification in the reality.

Thus reasoning in the abstract, the
mind cannot stop short of an extreme,
because it has to deal with an extreme,
with a conflict of forces left to them-
selves, and obeying no other but their
own inner laws. If we should seek to
deduce from the pure conception of war

ON WAR.

[book I.

an absolute point for the aim which we
shall propose and for the means which
we shall apply, this constant reciprocal
action would involve us in extremes, which
would be nothing but a play of ideas pro-
duced by an almost invisible train of logi-
cal subtleties. If adhering closely to the
absolute, we try to avoid all difficulties
by a stroke of the pen, and insist with
logical strictness that in every case the
extreme must be the object, and the
utmost effort must be exerted in that
direction, such a stroke of the pen would
be a mere paper law, not by any means
adapted to the real world.

Even supposing this extreme tension
of forces was an absolute which could
easily be ascertained, still we must admit
that the human mind would hardly sub-
mit itself to this kind of logical chimera.
There would be in many cases an unne-
cessary waste of power, which would be
in opposition to other principles of state-
craft ; an effort of will would be required
dispi-oportioned to the proposed object,
and which therefore it would be impossible
to realise, for the human will does not
derive its impulse from logical subtleties.

But everything takes a different form
when we pass from abstractions to reality.
In the former everything must be sub-
ject to optimism, and we must imagine
the one side as well as the other, striving
after perfection and even attaining it.
Will this ever take place in reaUty?
It will if

1, War becomes a completely isolated

act, which arises suddenly and is
in no way connected with the
l)revious history of the states ;

2, If it is limited to a single solution,

or to several simultaneous solu-
tions ;

3, If it contains within itself the solu-

tion perfect and complete, free
from any reaction upon it, through
*' a calculation beforehand of the
political situation which will fol-
low from it.

7. — War is never an isolated act

With regard to the first point, neither
of the two opponents is an abstract person
to the other, not even as regards that
factor in the sum of resistance, which
does not depend on objective things, viz.,
the will. This will is not an entirely un-
known quantity ; it indicates what it will
be to-morrow by what it is to-day. War
does not spring up quite suddenly, it
does not spread to the full in a moment ;
each of the two opponents can, therefore,
form an opinion of the other, in a great
measure, from what he is and what he
does ; instead of judging of him accord-
ing to what he, strictly speaking, should
be or should do. But, now, man with
his incomplete organisation is always be-
low the line of absolute perfection, and
thus these deficiencies, having an in-
fluence on both sides, become a modi-
fying principle.

8. — It does not consist of a single instan-
taneous blow.

The second point gives rise to the fol-
lowing considerations : —

If war ended in a single solution, or a
number of simultaneous ones, then natu-
rally all the preparations for the same
would have a tendency to the extreme,
for an omission could not in any way be
repaired; the utmost, then, that the
world of reality could furnish as a guide
for us would be the preparations of tho
enemy, as far as they are known to us ;
all the rest woidd fall into the domain of
the abstract. But if the result is made
up from several suocessive acts, then
naturally that which precedes with all its
phases may be taken as a mei^sure for
that which wiU follow, and in tiiis man-
ner the world of reality here again takes
the place of the abstract, and thus modi-
fies the effort towards the extreme.

Yet every war would necessarily re-
solve itself into a single solution, or a

CHAP. I.J

WEAT IS WARf

Bom of simultaneous results, if all the
means required for the struggle were
raised at once, or could be at once raised ;
for as one adverse result necessarily
diminishes the means, then if all the
means have been applied in the first, a
second cannot properly be supposed. All
hostile acts which might follow would
belong essentially to the first, and form
in reality only its duration.

But we have already seen that even in
the preparation for war the real world
steps into the place of mere abstract
conception — a material standard into the
place of the hypotheses of an extreme :
that therefore in that way both parties,
by the influence of the mutual reaction,
remain below the line of extreme effort,
and therefore all forces are not at once
brought forward.

It lies also in the nature of these
forces and their application, that they
cannot all be brought into activity at the
same time. These forces are the armies
actually on foot, the country , with its
superficial extent and its population, and
the allies.

In point of fact the country, with its
superficial area and the population, be-
sides being the source of all military
force, constitutes in itself an integral
part of the efficient quantities in war,
providing either the theatre of war or
exercising a considerable influence on
the same.

Now it is possible to bring all the move-
able military forces of a country into
operation at once, but not all fortresses,
rivers, mountains, people, etc., in short
not the whole country, unless it is so
small that it may be completely embraced
by the first act of the war. Further, the
CO* operation of allies does not depend on
the will of the belligerents ; and from the
nature of the political relations of states
to each other, this co- operation is fre-
quently not afforded until after the war
has commenced, or it may be increased
to restore the balance of power.

That this part of the means of resist-
ance, which cannot at once be brought
into activity, in many cases is a much
greater part of the whole than might at
first be supposed, and that it often re-
stores the balance of power, seriously
affected by the great force of the first
decision, will be more fiilly shown here-
after. Here it is sufficient to show that
a complete concentration of all available
means in a moment of time, is contradic-
tory to the nature of war.

Now this, in itself, furnishes no ground
for relaxing our efforts to accumulate
strength to gain the first result, because
an unfavourable issue is always a disad-
vantage to which no one would pur-
posely expose himself, and also because
the fiirst decision, although not the only
one, still will have the more influence on
subsequent events, the greater it is itself.

But the possibility of gaining a later
result causes men to take refuge in that
expectation owing to the repugnance, in
the human mind, to making excessive
efforts ; and therefore forces are not con-
centrated and measures are not taken for
the first decision with that energy which
would otherwise be used. Whatever one
belligerent omits from weakness, becomes
to the other a real objective ground for
limiting his own efforts, and thus again,
through this reciprocal action, extreme
tendencies are brought down to efforts on
a limited scale.

9. — The result in war is never abaolute.

Lastly, even the final decision of a
whole war is not always to be regarded
as absolute. The conquered state often
sees in it only a passing evil,, which may
be repaired in after times by means of
political combinations. How much this
also must modify the degree of tension
and the vigour of the efforts made is evi-
dent in itself.

6

ON WAB.

[book I.

10. — The prohahilittes of real life take the
place of the coneepiume of the extreme and
the absolute.

In this manner the whole act of war is
removed from under the rigorous law of
forces exerted to the utmost. If the ex-
treme is no longer to be apprehended, and
no longer to be sought for, it is left to the
judgment to determine the limits for the
efforts to be made in place of it ; and this
can only be done on the data furnished
by the facts of the real world by the latoa
ofprohahility. Once the belligerents are
no longer mere conceptions but indiyidual
states and governments, once the war is
no longer an ideal, but a definite sub-
stantial procedure, then the reality will
furnish the data to compute the unknown
quantities which are required to be
found.

From the character, the measures, the
situation of the adversary, and the rela-
tions with which he is surrounded, each
side will draw conclusions by the law of
probability as to the designs of the other,
and act accordingly.

1 1 . — The political object now reappears.

Here, now, forces itself again into con-
sideration a question which we had laid
aside (see No. 2), that is, the political
object of the war. The law of the extreme,
the view to disarm the adversary, to over-
throw him, has hitherto to a certain ex-
tent usurped the place of this end or
object. Just as this law loses its force,
the political object must again come for-
ward. If the whole consideration is a
calculation of probability based on defi-
nite persons and relations, then the poli-
tical object, being the original motive,
must be an essential factor in the product.
The smaller the sacrifice we demand from
our opponent, the smaller it may be ex-
pected will be the means of resistance
which he will employ ; but the smaller
his are, the smaller will ours require to
be. Further, the smaller our political

object, the less value shall we set upon it,
and the more easily shall we be induced
to give it up altogether.

Thus, therefore, the political object, as
the original motive of the war, will be
the standard for determining both the
aim of the military force, and also the
amount of effort to be made. This it
cannot be in itself; but it is so in
relation to both the belligerent states,
because we are concerned with rea-
lities, not with mere abstractions. One
and the same political object may pro-
duce totally different effects upon dif-
ferent people, or even upon the same
people at different times ; we can, there-
fore, only admit the political object as
the measure, by considering it in its effects
upon those masses which it is to move,
and consequently the nature of those
masses also comes into consideration. It
is easy to see that thus the result may be
very different according as these masses
are animated with a spirit which will in-
fuse vigour into tlie action or otherwise.
It is quite possible for such a state of
feeling to exist between two states that
a very trifling political motive for war
may produce an effect quite dispropor-
tionate, in fact, a perfect explosion.

This applies to the efforts which the
political object will call forth in the two
states, and to the aim which the military
action shall prescribe for itself. At times
it may itself be that aim, as for example
the conquest of a province. At other
times, the political object itself is not
suitable for the aim of military action ;
then such a one must be chosen as will
be an equivalent for it, and stand in its
place as regards the conclusion of peace.
But, also, in this, due attention to the
peculiar character of the states concerned
is always supposed. There are circum-
stances in which the equivalent must be
' much greater than the political object in
order to secure the latter. The political
object will be so much the more the
standard of aim and effort, and have more

CHAP. I.]

WHAT IS WAR?

influence in itself, the more the masses
are indifferent, the less that any mutual
feeling of hostility prevails in the two
states from other causes, and, therefore,
there are cases where the political object
almost alone will be decisive.

If the aim of the military action is an
equivalent for the political object, that
action will in general diminish as the
political object diminishes, and that in a
greater degree the more the political
object dominates; and so is explained
how, without any contradiction in itself,
there may be wars of all degrees of im-
portance and energy, from a war of ex-
termination, down to the mere use of an
army of observation. This, however, leads
to a question of another kind which we
have hereafter to develop and answer.

12. — A Hupension in the action of war
unexplained hy anything said as yet.

However insignificant the political
claims mutually advanced, however weak
the means put forth, however small the
aun to which military action is directed,
can this action be suspended even for a
moment ? This is a question which pene-
trates deeply into the nature of the sub-
ject.

Every transaction requires for its ac-
complishment a certain time which we
call its duration. This may be longer or
shorter, according as the person acting
throws more or less despatch into his
movements.

About this more or less we shall not
trouble ourselves here. £ach person acts
in his own fashion ; but the slow person
does not protract the thing because he
wishes to spend more time about it, but
because, by his nature, he requires more
time, and if he made more haste, would
not do the thing so well. This time,
therefore, depends on subjective causes,
and belongs to the length, so-called, of the
action.

If we allow now to every action in war

this, its length, then we must assume, at
first sight at least, that any expenditure
of time beyond this length, that is, every
suspension of hostile action appears an
absurdity ; with respect to this it must
not be forgotten that we now speak not
of the progress of one or other of the two
opponents, but of the general progress of
the whole action of the war.

1 3. — There is only one cause which can suS'
pend the action, and this seems to be only
possible on one side in any ease.

If two parties have armed themselves
for strife, then a feeling of animosity
must have moved them to it ; as long now
as they continue armed, that is do not
come to terms of peace, this feeling must
exist ; and it can only be brought to a
standstill by either side by one single
motive alone, which is, that he waits for a
more favourable moment for action. Now at
first sight it appears that this motive can
never exist except on one side, because it,
eo ipso, must be prejudicial to the other.
If tiie one has an interest in acting, then
the other must have an interest in wait-
ing.

A complete equilibrium of forces can

never produce a suspension of action, for
during this suspension he who has the
positive object (th.at is the assailant) must
continue progressing; for if we should
imagine an equilibrium in this way, that
he who has the positive object, therefore
the strongest motive, can at the same time
only command the lesser means, so that
the equation is made up by the product of
the motive and the power, then we must
say, if no alteration in this condition
of equilibrium is to be expected, the
two parties must make peace ; but if an
alteration is to be expected, tJien it can
only be favourable to one side, and there-
fore the other has a manifest interest to
act without delay. We see that the con-
ception of an equilibrium cannot explain
a suspension of arms, but that it ends in

OK WAR.

[book I.

the question of the ezpeetatian of a more
favourable moment.

Let lis suppose, therefore, that one of
two states has a positive object, as, for
instance, the conquest of one of the ene-
my's provinces — which is to be utilised
in the settlement of peace. After this
conquest his political object is accom-
plished, the necessity for action ceases,
and for him a pause ensues. If tlie
adversary is also contented with this solu-
tion he will make peace, if not he must
act. Now, if we suppose that in four
weeks he will be in a better condition to
act, then he has su£B.cient grounds for
putting off the time of action.

But ^m that moment the logical
course for the enemy appears to be to act
that he may not give the conquered party
the desired time. Of course, in this mode
of reasoning a complete insight into the
state of circumstances on both sides, is
supposed.

14. — Thus a continuance of aetion toill ensue
which will advance towards a climax.

If this unbroken continuity of hostile
operations really existed, the effect would
be that everything would again be driven
towards the extreme ; for irrespective of
the effect of such incessant activity in
inflaming the feelings and infusing into
the whole a greater degree of passion, a
greater elementary force, there would also
follow from this continuance of action, a
stricter continuity, a closer connection
between cause and effect, and thus every
single action would become of more im-
portance, and consequently more replete
with danger.

But we know that the course of action
in war has seldom or never this unbroken
continuity, and that there have been
many wars in which action occupied by
far the smallest portion of time employed,
the whole of the rest being consumed in
inaction. It is impossible that this should
be always an anomaly, and suspension of

action in war must be possible, that is no
contradiction in itself. We now proceed
to show this, and how it is.

15. — Here, therefore, the principle of pola*
rity is brought into requisition.

As we have supposed the interests of
one commander to be always antagonistio
to those of the other, we have assumed a
true polarity. We reserve a fuller expla-
nation of this for another chapter, merely
making the following observation on it
at present.

The principle of polarity is only valid
when it can be conceived in one and the
same thing, where the positive and its
opposite the negative, completely destroy
each other. In a battle both sides strive
to conquer ; that is true polarity, for the
victory of the one side destroys that of
the other. But when we speak of two
different things, which have a common
relation external to themselves, then it is
not the things but their relations which
have the polarity.

16. — Attack and defence are things differing
in kind and of unequal force. Polarity is,
therefore, not applicable to them.

If there was only one form of war, to
wit the attack of the enemy, therefore no
defence ; or in other words, if the attack
was distinguished from the defence
merely by &e positive motive, which the
one has and the other has not, but the
fight precisely one and the same : then
in this sort of fight every advantage
gained on the one side would be a cor-
responding disadvantage on the other,
and true polarity would exist.

But action in war is divided into two
forms, attack and defence, which, as we
shall hereafter explain more particularly,
are very different and of unequal strength.
Polarity, therefore, lies in tiiat to which
both bear a relation, in the decision, but
not in the attaok or defence itself.

CHAP. I.]

WHAT 18 WAR?

If the one oommander wishes the solu-
tion put off, the other must wish to
hasten it ; but certainly only in the same
form of combat. K it is A's interest not
to attack his enemy at present but four
weeks hence, then it is B's interest to be
attacked, not four weeks hence, but at
the present moment. This is the direct
antaigonism of interests, but it by no
means foUows that it would be for B's
interest to attack A at once. That is
plainly something totally difiFerent.

17. — The effect of Polarity is often destroyed
hy the superiority of the Defence over
the Attack f and thus the suspension of
action in war is explained.

If the form of defence is stronger than
that of offence, as we shall hereafter
show, the question arises, Is the advan-
tage of a deferred decision as g^eat on
the one side as the advantage of the
defensive form on the other? If it is
not, then it cannot by its counter-weight
overbalance the latter, and thus
influence the progress of the action
of the war. We see, therefore, that the
impulsive force existing in the polarity
of interests may be lost in the difference
between the strength of the offensive and
defensive, and thereby become ineffec-
tual.

If, therefore, that side for which the
present is favourable is too weak to be
able to dispense with the advantage of
the defensive,^ he must put up with the
unfavourable prospects which the future
holds out ; for it may still be better to
fight a defensive battle in the unpromis-
ing future than to assume the offensive
or make peace at present. Now, being
convinced that the superiority of the
defensive (rightly understood) is very
great, and much greater than may ap-
pear at first sight, we conceive that the
greater nimiber of those periods of in-
action which occur in war are thus
explained without involving any contra-

diction. The weaker the motives to
action are, the more will those motives
be absorbed and neutralised by this dif-
ference between attack and defence, the
more frequently, therefore, will action in
warfare be stopped, as indeed experience
teaches.

18. — A second ground consists in the imper-
feet knowledge of eireumstances.

But there is still another cause which
may stop action in war, that is an incom-
plete view of the situation. Each com-
mander can only fully know his own
position ; that of his opponent can only
be known to him by reports, which are
uncertain; he may, therefore, form a
wrong judgment with respect to it upon
data of this description, and, in conse-
quence of that error, he may suppose that
the initiative is properly with his adver-
sary when it is really with himself. This
want of perfect insight might certainly
just as often occasion an untimely action
as untimely inaction, and so it would in
itself no more contribute to delay than
to accelerate action in war. Still, it must
always be regarded as one of the natural
causes which may bring action in war to a
standstill without involving a contradic-
tion. But if we reflect how much more we
are inclined and induced to estimate the
power of our opponents too high than
too low, because it lies in human nature
to do so, we shall admit that our imper-
fect insight into facts in general must
contribute very much to stop action in
war, and to modify the principle of
action.

The possibility of a standstill brings
into the action of war a new modification,
inasmuch as it dilutes that custion with
the element of Time, checks the influ-
ence or sense of danger in its course, and
increases the means of reinstating a lost
balance of force. The greater the ten-
sion of feelings from which the war
springs, the greater, therefore, the energy

10

ON WAR.

[book r.

with which it is carried on, so much the
shorter will be the periods of inaction ; on
the other hand, the weaker the principle of
warlike activity, the longer will be these
periods : for powerful motives increase
the force of the will, and this, as we
know, is always a factor in the product
of force.

19. — Frequent periods of inaction in war re-
move it further from the absolute, and make
it still more a calculation of probabilities.

But the slower the action proceeds in
war, the more frequent and longer the
periods of inaction, so much the more
easily can an error be repaired ; there-
fore so much the bolder a general will be
in his calculations, so much the more
readily will he keep them below the line
of absolute, and build everything upon
probabilities and conjecture. Thus, ac-
cording as the course of the war is
more or less slow, more or less time will
be allowed for that which the nature of
a concrete case particularly requires, cal-
culation of probability based on given
circumstances.

20. — It therefore now only wants the ele-
meni of chance to make of it a game, and
in that element it is least of all deficient.

We see from the foregoing how much
the objective nature of war makes it a
calculation of probabilities ; now there
is only one single element still wanting
to make it a game, and that element it
certainly is not without : it is chance.
There is no human affair which stands
BO constantly and so generally in close
connection with chance as war. But
along with chance, the accidental, and
along with it good luck, occupy a g^eat
place in war.

21. — As war is a game through its objective
nature, so also is it through its subjective.

If we now take a look at iAie^ subjective

nature of war, that is at those powers
with which it is carried on, it will appear
to us still more like a game. The ele-
ment in which the operations of war are
carried on is danger ; but which of all
the moral qualities is the first in danger ?
Courage. Now certainly courage is quite
compatible with prudent calculation, but
still they are things of quite a different
kind, essentially different qualities of the
mind ; on the other hand, daring reliance
on good fortune, boldness, ras£jiess, are
only expressions of courage, and all
these propensities of the mind look for
the fortuitous (or accidental), because it
is their element.

We see therefore how from the com-
mencement, the absolute, the mathema-
tical as it is called, no where finds any
sure basis in the calculations in the art
of war ; and that from the outset there is
a play of possibilities, probabilities, good
and bad luck, which spreads about with
all the coarse and fine threads of its
web, and makes war of all branches of
human activity the most like a game of
cards.

22. — How this accords best with the human
mind in general.

Although our intellect always feels
itself urged towards clearness and cer-
tainty, still our mind often feels itself
attracted by uncertainty. Instead of
threading its way with the understanding
along the narrow path of philosophical
investigations and logical conclusions, in
order almost unconscious of itself, to
arrive in spaces where it feels itself a
stranger, and where it seems to part
from all well known objects, it prefers to
remain with the imagination in the
realms of chance and luck. Instead of
living yonder on poor necessity, it revels
here in the wealth of possibilities ; ani-
mated thereby, courage then takes wings
to Itself, and daring and danger make
the element into which it launches

OHAP. I.]

WHAT IS WAR?

11

itself, as a fearless swimmer plunges into
the Btrefiun.

Shall theory leave it here, and move
on, self satisfied with absolute conclusions
and rules? Then it is of no practical
use. Theory must also take into account
the human element; it must accord a
place to courage, to boldness, even to
rashness. The art of war has to deal
with liying and with moral forces ; the
Gonsequende of which is that it can
never attain the absolute and positive.
There is therefore everywhere a mar-
gin for the accidental; and just as
much in the greatest things as in the
smallest. As there is room for this acci-
dental on the one hand, so on the other
there must be courage and self-reliance
in proportion to the room left. If these
qualities are forthcoming in a high
degree, the margin left may like-
wise be great. Courage and self re-
liance are therefore principles quite
essential to war ; consequently theory
must only set up such rules as allow
ample scope for ail degrees and varieties
of tliese necessary and noblest of military
virtues. In daring there may still be
wisdom also, and prudence as weU, only
that they are estimated by a different
standard of value.

23. — War is always a serious means for a
serious object. Its more particular deji'
nition.

Such is war; such the commander
who conducts it ; such the theory which
rules it. But war is no pastime ; no mere
passion for venturing and winning ; no
work of a free enthusiasm ; it is a serious
means for a serious object. All that
appearance which it wears from the
varying hues of fortune, all that it
assimilates into itself of the oscillations
of passion, of courage, of imagination,
of enthusiasm, are only particular pro-
perties of this means.

The war of a community— of whole
nations and particularly of civilised

nations — always starts from a political
condition, and is called forth by a politi-
cal motive. It is therefore a political act
Now if it was a perfect, unrestrained and
absolute expression offeree, as we had to
deduce it from its mere conception, then
the moment it is called forth by policy it
would step into the place of policy, and as
something quite independent of it would
set it aside, and only follow its own laws,
just as a mine at the moment of explosion
cannot be gpiided into any other direction
than that which has been given to it by
preparatory arrangements. This is how
the thing has really been viewed hitherto,
whenever a want of harmony between
policy and the conduct of a war has led
to theoretical distinctions of the kind.
But it is not so, and the idea is radically
false. War in the real world, as we have
already seen, is not an extreme thing which
expends itself at one single discharge; it
is the operation of powers which do not
develop themselves completely in the
same manner and in the same measure,
but which at one time expand sufficiently
to overcome the resistance opposed by
inertia or friction, while at another they
are too weak to produce an effect ; it is
therefore, in a certain measure, a pulsation
of violent force more or less vehement,
consequently making its discharges and
exhausting its powers more or less
quickly, in other words conducting more
or less quickly to the aim, but always
lasting long enough to admit of influence
being exerted on it in its course, so as to
give it this or that direction, in short to
be subject; to the will of a guiding intel-
ligence. Now if we reflect that war has
its root in a political object, then
naturally this original motive which
called it into existence should also con-
tinue the first and highest consideration
in the conduct of it. Still the political
object is no despotic lawgiver on that
account ; it must accommodate itself to
the nature of the means, and through
that is often completely changed, but it

12

ON WAR,

[book I.

always remains that which has a prior
right to consideration. Policy therefore
is interwoven with the whole action of
war, and must exercise a continuous in-
fluence upon it as far as the nature of
the forces exploding in it will permit.

24. — War is a mere continuation ofpoUey hy

other means.

We see, therefore, that war is not merely
a political act, but also a real political in-
strument, a continuation of political com-
merce, a carrjdng out of the same by
other means. All beyond this which is
strictly peculiar to war relates merely to
the peculiar nature of the means which
it uses. That the tendencies and views
of policy shall not be incompatible with
these means, the art of war in general
and the commander in each particular
case may demand, and this daim is truly
not a trifling one. But however power-
fully this may react on political views in
particular cases, still it must always be
regarded as only a modification of them ;
for the political view is the object, war is
the means, and the means must always
include the object in our conception.

25. — Diversity in the nature of wars.

The greater and more powerful the
motives of a war, the more it affects the
whole existence of a people, the more
violent the excitement which precedes
the war, by so much the nearer wHl the
war approach to its abstract form, so
much the more will it be directed to the
destruction of the enemy, so much the
nearer will the military and political ends
coincide, so much the more purely mili-
tary and less political the war appears to
be ; but the weaker the motives and the
tensions, so much the less will the natural
direction of the military element — that is,
force— be coincident with the direction
which the political element indicates ; so
much the more must therefore the war

become diverted from its natural direc-
tion, the political object diverge from
the aim of an ideal war, and the war
appear to become political.

But that the reader may not form any
false conceptions, we must here observe
that, by this natural tendency of war, we
only mean the philosophical, the strictly
logical, and by no means the tendency of
forces actually engaged in conflict, by
which would be supposed to be included
all the emotions and passions of the com-
batants. No doubt in some cases these
also might be excited to such a degree
as to be with difficulty restrained and
conflned to the political road ; but in most
oases such a contradiction will not arise,
because, by the existence of such strenu-
ous exertions a great plan in harmony
therewith would be implied. If the
plan is directed only upon a small object,
then the impulses of feeling amongst tho
masses will be also so weak, that these
masses will require to be stimulated
rather than repressed.

26. — They may all he regarded as political

acts,

Betuming now to the main subject,
although it is true that in one kind of
war the political element seems almost to
disappear, whilst in another kind it occu-
pies a very prominent place, we may still
affirm that the one is as political as the
other ; for if we regard the state policy
as the intelligence of the personifled state, .
then amongst all the constellations in the
political sky which it has to compute,
those must be included which arise when
the nature of its relations imposes the ne-
cessity of a great war. It is only if we
understand by policy not a true apprecia-
tion of affairs in general, but the conven-
tional conception of a cautious, subtle,
also dishonest craftiness, averse from vio-
lence, that tho latter kind of war may
belong more to policy than the flrst.

CHAP. I.]

WHAT IS WAR?

13

27. — Influence of thie view on the right
understanding of military history^ and on
the foundations of theory.

We see, therefore, in the first place,
that under all circumstances war is to be
regarded not as an independent thing,
but as a political instrument ; and it is
only by taking this point of view that we
can avoid finding ourselves in opposition
to all military history. This is die only
means of unlocking the great book and
making it intelligible. Secondly, just
this view shows us how wars must differ
in character according to the nature of
the motives and circumstances from which
they proceed.

Now, the first, the grandest, and most
decisive act of judgment which the states-
man and general exercises is rightly to
understand in this respect the war in
which he engages, not to take it for
something, or to wish to make of it
something which, by the nature of its
relations, it is impossible for it to be.
This is, therefore, the first, the most
comprehensive of all strategical questions.
We shall enter into this more fully in
treating of the plan of a war.

For the present we content ourselves
with having brought the subject up to
this point, and having thereby fixed the
chief point of view fi:om which war and
its theory are to be studied.

28. — Reeultfor theory.

War is, therefore, not only a true
chameleon, because it changes its nature
in some degree in each particular case,
but it is also, as a whole, in relation to
the predominant tendencies which are in
it, a wonderful trinity, composed of the
original violence of its elements, hatred

and animosity, which may be looked
upon as blind instinct; of the play of
probabilities and chance, which make it
a free activity of the soul ; and of the
subordniate nature of a political instru-
ment, by which it belongs purely to the
reason.

The first of these three phases con-
cerns more the people ; the second more
the general and his army ; the third more
the Government The passions which
break forth in war must already have
a latent existence in the peoples. The
range which the display of coiirage and
talents shall get in the realm of proba-
bilities and of chance depends on the par-
ticular characteristics of the general and
his army ; but the political objects belong
to the Government alone.

These three tendencies, which appear
like so many different lawgivers, are
deeply rooted in the nature of the subject,
and at the same time variabje in deg^*ee.
A theory which would leave any one of
them out of account, or set up any arbi-
trary relation between them, wordd im-
me^ately become involved in such a
contradiction with the reality, that it
might be regarded as destroyed at once
by that alone.

The problem is, therefore, that theory
shall keep itself poised in a manner be-
tween these three tendencies, as between
three points of attraction.

The way in which alone this difficult
problem can be solved we shall examine
in the book on the " Theory of War."
In every case the conception of war, as
here defined, will be the first ray of light
which shows us the true foundation of
theory, and which first separates the
great masses, and allows us to distinguish
tiiem from one another.

14

ON WAR,

[book I.

CHAPTER II

END AND MEANS IN WAR.

Havino in the foregoing chapter ascer-
tained the complicated and yariable
nature of war, we shall now occupy our-
selves in examining into the influence
which this nature has upon the end and
means in war.

If we ask first of all for the aim upon
which the whole war is to be directed, in
order that it may be the right means for
the attainment of the political object, we
shall find that it is just as yariable as
are the political object and the particular
circumstances of the war.

If, in the next place, we keep once more
to the pure conception of war, then we
must say that its political object properly
lies out of its province, for if war is an
act of violence to compel the enemy to
fulfil our will, then in every case all de-
pends on our overthrowing the enemy,
that is, disarming him, and on that alone.
This object, developed from abstract con-
ceptions, but which is also the one aimed
at in a g^at many cases in reality, we
shall, in the first place, examine in this

reali^.

In connection with the plan of a cam-
paign we shall hereafter examine more
closely into the meaning of disarming a
nation, but here we must at once draw a
distinction between three things, which
as three general objects comprise every-
thing else within them. They are the
military power ^ the eountry, and the will of
the enemy.

The military power must be destroyed,
that is, reduced to such a state as not to
be able to prosecute the war. This is
the sense in which we wish to be under-
stood hereafter, whenever we use the

expression '' destruction of the enemy's
military power."

The country must be conquered, for out
of the coimtry a new military force may
be formed.

But if even both these things are done,
still the war, that is, the hostile feeling
and action of hostile agencies, cannot be
considered as at an end as long as the
will of the enemy is not subdued also ;
that is, its Government and its allies
forced into signing a peace, or the people
into submission ; for whilst we are in full
occupation of the country the war may
break out afresh, either in the interior or
through assistance given by allies. No
doubt this may also take place after a
peace, but that shows nothing more than
that every war does not carry in itself
the elements for a complete decision and
final settlement.

But even if this is the case, still with
the conclusion of peace a number of
sparks are always extingpiished, which
would have smouldered on quietly, and
the excitement of the passions abates,
because all those whose minds are dis-
posed to peace, of which in all nations
and under all circumstances, there is
always a great number, turn themselves
away completely from the road to resist-
ance. Whatever may take place subse-
quently, we must always look upon the
object as attained, and the business of
war as ended, by a peace.

As protection of the country is that one
of these objects to which the military
force is destined, therefore the natural
order is that first of all this force should
be destroyed ; then the country subdued ;

CHAP. II.]

END AND MEANS.

15

and tbrongh the effect of these two re-
sults, as well as the position we then hold,
the enemy should be forced to make
peace. Generally the destruction of the
enemy's force is done by degrees, and in
just the same measure the conquest of
the country follows immediately. The
two likewise usually react upon each
other, because the loss of provinces occa-
sions a diminution of military force. But
this order is by no means necessary, and
on that account it also does not always
take place. The enemy's army, before
it is sensibly weakened, may retreat to
the opposite side of the country, or even
quite out of the country. In this case,
tiierefore, the greater part or the whole
of the country is conquered.

But this object of war in the abstract,
this final means of attaining the political
object in which all others are combined,
the disarming the enemy, is by no means
general in reality, is not a condition
necessary to peace, and therefore can in
no wise be set up in theory as a law.
There are innumerable instances of
treaties in which peace has been settled
before either party could be looked upon
as disarmed; indeed, even before the
balance had undergone any sensible
alteration. Nay, further, if we look at
the case in the concrete, then we must
say that in a whole class of cases the
idea of a complete defeat of the enemy
would be a mere imaginative flight,
especially if the enemy is considerably
superior.

The reason why the object deduced
from the conception of war is not adapted
in general to real war, lies in the differ-
ence between the two, which is discussed
in the preceding chapter. If it was as
pure conception gives it, then a war be-
tween two states of very unequal military
strength would appear an absurdity;
therefore would be impossible. At most,
the inequality between the physical
forces might be such that it could be
balanced by the moral forces, and that

would not go far with our present social
condition in Europe. Therefore, if we
have seen wars take place between states
of very unequal power, that has been the
case because there is a wide difference
between war in reality and its original
conception.

There are two considerations, which as
motives, may practically take the place
of inability to continue the contest. The
first is the improbability, the second is
the excessive price of success.

According to what we have seen in the
foregoing chapter, war must always set
itself free from the strict law of logical
necessity, and seek aid from the calcula-
tion of probabilities : and as this is so
much the more the case, the more the
war has a bias that way, from the cir-
cumstances out of which it has arisen —
the smaller its motives are and the ex-
citement it has raised — so it is also con-
ceivable how out of this calculation of
probabilities even motives to peace may
arise. War does not therefore always
require to be fought out imtil one party
is overthrown ; and we may suppose that,
when the motives and passions are
slight, a weak probability will suffice to
move that side to which it is unfavourable
to give way. Now, were the other side
convinced of this beforehand, it is natural
that he would strive for this probability
only instead of first trying and making
the detour of a total destruction of the
enemy's army.

Still more general in its influence on
the resolution to peace is the considera-
tion of the expenditure of force already
made, and further required. As war is no
act of blind passion, but is dominated
over by the political object, therefore
the value of that object determines the
measure of the sacrifices by which it is
to be purchased. This will be the case,
not only as regards extent, but also as
regards duration. As soon, therefore,
as the required outlay becomes so great
that the political object is no longer

16

ON WAR.

[book I.

equal in value, the object must be given
up, and peace will be the result.

We see, therefore, that in wars where
one cannot completely disarm the other,
the motives to peace on both sides will
rise or fall on each sidd according to the
probability of future success and the
required outlay. If these motives were
equally strong on both sides, they would
meet in the centre of their political
difference. Where they are strong on
one side, they might be weak on
the other. If their amount is only suffi-
cient, peace will follow, but naturally to
the aidvantage of that side which has the
weakest motive for its conclusion. We
purposely pass over here the difference
which the positive and negative character
of the political end must necessarily pro*
duce practically ; for although that is, as
we shall hereafter show, of the highest
importance, still we are obliged to keep
here to a more general point of view, be-
cause the original political views in the
course of the war change very much,
and at last may become totally different,
just because they are determined by results
and probable events.

Now comes the question how to in-
fluence the probability of success. In
the first place, naturaUy by the same
means which we use when the object is
the subjugation of the enemy, by the des*
truotion of his military force and the
conquest of his provinces ; but these two
means are not exactly of the same import
here as they would be in reference to that
object. If we attack the enemy's army,
it is a very different thing whether we
intend to follow up the first blow with a
succession of others until the whole force
is destroyed, or whether we mean to
content ourselves with a victory to shake
the enemy's feeling of security, to con-
vince him of our superiority, and to in-
stil into him a feeling of apprehension
about the future. If this is our object,
we only go so far in the destruction of
his forces as is sufficient. In like manner

the conquest of the enemjr's provinces is
quite a different measure if the object is
not the destruction of the enemy's army.
In the latter case, the destruction of the
army is the real effectual action, and the
taking of the provinces only a conse-
quence of it; to take them before the
army had been defeated would always
be looked upon only as a necessaiy evil.
On the other hand, if our views are not
directed upon the complete destruction
of the enemy's force, and if we are sure
that the enemy does not seek but fears to
bring matters to a bloody decision, the
taking possession of a weak or defence-
less province is an advantage in itself
and if this advantage is of sufficient im-
portance to make the enemy apprehensive
about the general result, then it may
also be regarded as a shorter road to peace.

But now we come upon a peculiar
means of influencing the probability of
the result without destroying the enemy's
army, namely, upon the expeditions
which have a direct connection with
political views. If there are any enter-
prises which are particularly likely to
break up the enemy's alliances or make
them inoperative, to gain new alliances
for ourselves, to raise political powers in
our own favour, etc.,etc., then it is easy to
conceive how much these may increase
the probability of success, and become a
shorter way towards our aim than the
routing of the enemy's army.

The second question is how to act
upon the enemy's expenditure in strength,
that is, to raise the price of success.

The enemy's outlay in strong^ lies in
the wear and tear of his forces, conse-
quently in the destruction of them on our
part, and in the loss of provinces, conse-
quently the conquest of them by us.

Here again, on account of the various
sig^fications of these means, so likewise
it will be found that neither of them
will bid identical in its signification, in
all cases if the objects are different
The smallness in general of this differ-

CHAP, n.]

END AND MEANS.

17

ence must not cause us perplexity, for in
reality the weakest motives, the finest
shades of difference, often decide in
favour of this or that method of apply-
ing force. Our only business here is to
show that certain conditions being sup-
posed, the possibility of attaining the
aim in different ways is no contradiction,
absurdity, nor even error.

Besides these two means there are three
other peculiar ways of directly increasing
the waste of the enemy's force. The
first is invasionf that is t^e occupation of
the enemy^s territory, not with a view to
keeping it, but in order to levy contribu-
tions there, or to devastate it. The imme-
diate object is here neither the conquest
of the enemy's territory nor the defeat of
his armed force, but merely to do him
damage in a general way. The second way
is to select for the object of our enter-
prises those points at which we can do
the enemy most harm. Nothing is easier
to conceive than two different directions
in which our force may be employed, the
first of which is to be preferred if our
object is to defeat the enemy's army,
while the other is more advantageous* if
the defeat of the enemy is out of the ques-
tion. According to the usual mode of
speaking we should say that the first
is more military, the other more poHti-
caL But if we take our view from
the highest point, both are equally mili-
tary, and neither the one nor the other
can be eligible unless it suits the circum-
stances of the case. The third, by far the
most important, from the great number
of cases which it embraces, is the wearying
out the enemy. We choose this expres-
sion not only to explain our meaning
in few words but because it represents
the thing exactly, and is not so figura-
tive as may at first appear. The idea of
wearying out in a struggle amounts in
reality to a gradual exhaustion of the phy-
eieal powers and of the will produced through
the ling continuance of exertion.
Now if we want to overcome the enemy

by the duration of the contest we must
content ourselves with as small objects
as possible, for it is in the nature of the
thing that a g^eat end requires a greater
expenditure of force than a small one ;
but the smallest object that we can pro-
pose to ourselves is simple passive resis-
tance, that is a combat without any
positive view. In this way, therefore, our
means attain their greatest relative value,
and therefore the result is best secured.
How far now can this negative mode of
proceeding be carried ? Plainly not to
absolute passivity, for mere endurance
would not be fighting : and the defen-
sive is an activity by which so much of
the enemy's power must be destroyed,
that he must give up his object. That
alone is what we aim at in each single
act, and therein consists the negative
nature of our object.

No doubt this negative object in its sin-
gle act is not so effective as the positive
object in the same direction woidd be,
supposing it successful ; but there is this
difference in its favour, that it succeeds
more easily than the positive, and there-
fore it holds out ^eater certainty of
success ; what is wanting in the efficacy
of its single act, must be gained through
time, that is, through the duration of the
contest, and therefore this negative inten-
tion, which constitutes the principle of the
pure defensive, is also the natural means of
overcoming the enemy by the duration of
the combat, that is of wearing him out.

Here Hes the origin of that difference
of Offensive and Defensive, the influence of
which prevails over the whole province of
war. We cannot at present pursue this
subject further than to observe that from
this negative intention are to be deduced
all the advantages and all the stronger
forms of combat which are on the side
of the Defensive, and in which that philo-
sophical-dynamic law which exists be-
tween the greatness and the certainty of
success is realised. We shall resume the
consideration of all this hereafter.

18

ON WAR.

[book I.

If then the negative purpose, that is
the concentration of all the means into a
state of pure resistance, afiEbrds a supe-
riority in the contest, and if this ad-
vantage is sufficient to balance whatever
superiority in numbers the adversary
may have, then the mere duration of the
contest will suffice gradually to bring the
loss of force on the part of the adversary
to a point at which the political object
can no longer be an equivalent, a point
at which, therefore, he must give up the
contest. We see then that this class of
means, the wearying out of the enemy,
includes the great niunber of cases in
which the wefJcer resists the stronger.

Frederick the Great during the Seven
Years' War was never strong enough to
overthrow the Austrian monarchy ; and if
he had tried to do so after the fashion of
Charles the Twelfth, he would inevitably
have had to succumb himselfl But
after his skilful application of the system
of husbanding his resources had shown
the powers allied against him, through a
seven years' war, that the actual expen-
diture of strength far exceeded what they
had at first anticipated, they made peace.

We see then that there are many
ways to the aim in war ; that the com-
plete subjugation of the enemy is not
essential in every C€i8e, that the destruc-
tion of the enemy's military force, the
conquest of enemy's provinces, the mere
occupation of them, the mere invasion of
them — enterprises which are aimed di-
rectly at political objects — lastly a passive
expectation of the enemy's blow, are all
means which, each in itself, may be used
to force the enemy's will just according
as the peculiar circumstances of the case
lead us to expect more from the one or
the other. We could still add to these a
whole category of shorter methods of
gaining the end, which might be called
arg^uments ad hominem. What branch
of human affairs is there in which these
sparks of individual spirit have not
made their appearance, flying over all

formal considerations ? And least of all
can they fail to appear in war, where
the personal character of the combatants
plays such an important part, both in
the cabinet and in the field. We limit
ourselves to pointing this out, as it would
be pedantry to attempt to reduce such
influences into classies. Including these,
we may say that the number of possible
ways of reaching the aim rises to infi-
nity.

To avoid under-estimating these dif-
ferent short roads to the aim, either
estimating them only as rare exceptions,
or holding the diflorence which they
cause in the conduct of war as insignifi-
cant, we must bear in mind the diversity
of political objects which may cause a
war, — measure at a glance the distance
which there is between a death struggle
for political existence, and a war which a
forced or tottering alliance makes a mat-
ter of disagreeable duty. Between the two,
gradations innumerable occur in realiiy.
If we reject one of these gradations in
theory, we might with equal right reject
the whole, which would be tantamount
to shutting the real world completely out
of sight.

These are the circumstances in general
connected with the aim which we have to
pursue in war; let us now turn to the
means.

There is only one single means, it is the
Fight, However diversified this may be
in form, however widely it may differ
from a rough vent of hatred and ani-
mosity in a hand-to-hand encounter, what-
ever number of things may introduce
themselves which are not actual fighting,
still it is always implied in the conception
of war, that all the effects manifested
have their roots in the combat.

That this must also always be so in the
greatest diversity and complication of the
realiiy, is proved in a very simple man^
ner. All that takes place in war takes
place through armed forces, but where
the forces of war, t. 0., armed men aro

CHAP. II.]

END AND MEANS.

19

applied, there the idea of fighting must
of necessity be at the foundation.

All, therefore, that relates to forces of
war — aU that is connected with their
creation, maintenance, and application,
belongs to military activity.

Creation and maintenance are obviously
only the means, whilst application is the
object.

The contest in war is not a contest of
individual against individual, but an
organised whole, consisting of manifold
parts ; in this great whole we may dis-
tinguish units of two kinds, the one
determined by the subject, the other by
the object. In an army the mass of com-
batants ranges itself always into an order
of new units, which again form members
of a higher order. The combat of each of
these members forms, therefore, also a
more or less distinct unit. Further, the
motive of the fight ; therefore its object
forms its unit.

Now to each of these units which we
distinguish in the contest, we attach the
name of combat.

If the idea of combat lies at the foun-
dation of every application of armed
power, then also the application of armed
force in general, is nothing more than the
determining and arranging a certain
number of combats.

Every activity in war, therefore, neces-
sarily relates to the combat either directly
or indirectly. The soldier is levied,
elothed, armed, exercised, he sleeps, eats,
drinks and marches, all merely to fight at
the right time and place.

If, therefore, all the threads of military
activity terminate in the combat, we shaU
grasp them all when we settle the order
of the combats. Only £rom this order and
its execution proceed the effects ; never
directly from the conditions preceding
them. Now, in the combat all the action
is directed to the destruction of the enemy,
or rather of hie fighting powere^ for this
lies in the conception of combat. The
destruction of the enemy's fighting power

is, therefore, always the means to attain
the object of the combat.

This object may likewise be the mere
destruction of the enemy's armed force;
but that is not by any means necessary,
and it may be something quite different.
Whenever, for instance, as we have
shown, the defeat of the enemy is not
the only means to attain the political
object, whenever there are other objects
which may be pursued, as the aim in a
war, then it follows of itself that such
other objects may become the object of
particular acts of warfare, and, therefore,
also the object of combats.

But even those combats which, as
subordinate acts, are in the strict sense
devoted to the destruction of the enemy's
fighting force, need not have that destruc- .
tion itself as their first object.

If we think of the manifold parts of a
great armed force, of the number of cir-
ciunstances which come into activity when
it is employed, then it is clear that the
combat of such a force must also require a
manifold organisation, a subordinating of
parts and formation. There may and
must naturally arise for particular parts
a number of objects which are not them-
selves the destruction of the enemy's
armed force, and which, while they cer-
tainly contribute to increase that destruc-
tion, do so only in an indirect manner.
If a battalion is ordered to drive the
enemy from a rising groimd, or a bridge,
&c., then properly the occupation of any
such locality is the real object, the destruc-
tion of the enemy's armed force, which
takes place, only the means or secondary
matter. If the enemy can be driven away
merely by a demonstration, the object is
attained aU the same; but this hill or
bridge is, in point of fact, only required
as a means of increasing the gross amount
of loss inflicted on the enemy's armed
force. If this is the case on the field of
battle, much more must it be so on the
whole theatre of war, where not only one
army is opposed to another, but one State,

20

ON WAR.

[book I.

one nation, one whole country to another.
Here the number of possible relations^
and consequently possible combinations,
is much greater, the diversity of measures
increased, and by the gradation of objects
each subordinate to another, the first
means employed is further apart from
the ultimate object.

It is, therefore, for many reasons pos-
sible that the object of a combat is not
the destruction of the enemy's force, that
is, of the force opposed to us, but that
this only appears as a means. But in all
such cases it is no longer a question of
complete destruction, for the combat is
here nothing else but a measure of
strength — ^has in itself no value except
only that of the present result, that is, of
its decision.

But a measuring of strength may be
effected in cases where the opposing sides
are very unequal by a mere comparative
estimate. In such cases no fighting will
take place, and the weaker wUl immedi-
ately give way.

K the object of a combat is not always
the destruction of the enemy's forces
therein en gaged — andif its object can often
be attained as well without the combat
taking place at all, by merely making a
resolve to fight, and by the circumstances
to which that gives rise— then that ex-
plains how a whole campaign may be
carried on with great activity without the
actual combat playing any notable part
in it.

That this may be so, military history
proves by a himdred examples. How
many of Uiose cases had a bloodless deci-
sion which can be justified, that is, with-
out involving a contradiction ; and whether
some of the celebrities who rose out of
them would stand criticism we shall
leave undecided, for all we have to do
with the matter is to show the possibility
of such a course of events in war.

We have only one means in war — ^the
battle; but this means, by the infinite
variety of ways in which it may be ap-

plied, leads us into all the different ways
which the multiplicity of objects allows
of, so that we seem to have gained
nothing; but that is not the case, for
from this imity of means proceeds a
thread which assists the study of the
subject, as it runs through the whole
web of military activity, and holds it
together.

But we have considered the destruc-
tion of the enemy's force as one of the
objects which may be pursued in war,
and left undecided what importance
should be given to it amongst other ob-
jects. In certain cases it will depend on
circumstances, and as a general question
we have left its value undetermined. We
are once more brought back upon it, and
we shall be able to get an insight into
the value which must necessarily be ac-
corded to it.

The combat is the single activity in
war; in the combat the destruction of
the enemy opposed to us is the means to
the end ; it is so even when the combat
does not actually take place, because in
that case there lies at the root of the de-
cision the supposition at all events that
this destruction is to be regarded as
beyond doubt. It follows, therefore,
that the destruction of the enemy's
military force is the foundation-stone
of all action in war, the great sup-
port of all combinations, which rest upon
it like the arch on its abutments. All
action, therefore, takes place on the sup-
position that if the solution by force of
arms which lies at its foundation should
be realised, it will be a favourable one.
The decision by arms is, for all operations
in war, great and small, what cash pay-
ment is in bill transactions. However
remote from each other these relations,
however seldom the realisation may take
place, still it can never entirely fail to
occur.

If the decision by arms lies at the foun-
dation of all combinations, then it follows
that the enemy can defeat each of them by

CHAP. II.]

ENB AND MEANS.

21

gaining a successful decision with arms,
not merely if it is that one on which our
combination directly depends, but also
by any other, if it is only important
enough for every important decision by
arms — ^that is, destruction of the enemy's
forces reacts upon all preceding it, be-
cause, like a liquid element, they bring
themselyes to a level.

Thus, the destruction of the enemy's
armed force appears, therefore, always
as the superior and more effectuid means,
to which all others must give way.

But certainly it is only when there is
a supposed equality in all other condi-
tions Qbat we can ascribe to the destruc-
tion of the enemy's armed force a greater
efficacy. It would, therefore, be a great
mistake to draw from it the conclusion
that a blind dash must always gain the
victory over skill and caution. An im-
skilful attack would lead to the destruc-
tion of our own and not of the enemy's
force, and therefore is not what is here
meant. The superior efficacy belongs
not to the means but to the end^ and we
are only comparing the effect of one
realised aim with the other.

If we speak of the destruction of the
enemy's armed force, we must expressly
point out that nothing obHges us to con-
due this idea to the mere physical force ;
on the contrary, the moral is necessarily
implied as well, because both in fact are
interwoven with each other even in the
most minute details, and, therefore, can-
not be separated. But it is just in con-
nection with the inevitable effect which
has been referred to, of a great act of
destruction (a great victory) upon all
other decisions by arms, that this moral
element is most fluid, if we may use that
expression, and, therefore, distributes it-
self the most easily through all the
parts.

Against the far superior worth which
the destruction of the enemy's armed
force has over all other means, stands the
expense and risk of this means, and it is

only to avoid these that any other means
are taken.

That this means must be costly stands
to reason, for the waste of our own mili-
tary forces must, ceteris paribus, always
be greater the more our aim is directed
upon the destruction of the enemy's.

But the danger of this means lies in
this, that just the greater efficacy which
we seek recoils on ourselves, and therefore
has worse consequences in case we fail of
success.

Other methods are, therefore, less
costly when they succeed, less dangerous
when they fail; but in this is neces-
sarily lodged the condition that they are
only opposed to similar ones, that is,
that the enemy acts on the same prin-
ciple ; for if the enemy should choose the
way of a great decision by arms, our
means must on that account he changed against
our toill^ in order to correspond with his.
Then aU depends on the issue of the act
of destruction ; but of course it is evident
that, ceteris paribus, in this act we
must be at a disadvantage in all respects
because our views and our means had
been directed in part upon other objects,
which is not the case with the enemy.
Two different objects of which one is not
part of the other exclude each other ;
and, therefore, a force which may be
applicable for the one, may not serve for *
the other. If, therefore, one of two
belligerents is determined to take the
way of the great decision by arms,
then he has also a high probability
of success, as soon as he is certain
his opponent will not take that way,
but follows a different object ; and
every one who sets before himself any
such other aim only does so in a reason-
able maimer, provided he acts on the sup-
position that his adversary has as little
intention as he has of resorting to the
great decision by arms.

But what we have hera said of another
direction of views and forces relates only
to other positive objects, which we may

22

ON WAR.

[book I.

propoee to ourselves in wax besides the
destruction of the enemy's force, not by
any means to the pure defensive, which
may be adopted with a view thereby to
exhaust the enemy's forces. In the pure
defensive, the positive object is wanting,
and, therefore, while on the defensive,
our forces cannot at the same time be
directed on other objects ; they can only
be employed to defeat the intentions of
the enemy.

We have now to consider the opposite
of the destruction of the enemy's armed
force, that is to say, the preservation
of our own. These two efforts always
go together, as they mutually act and
re-act on each other ; they are integral
parts of one and the same view, and
we have only to ascertain what effect
is produced when one or the other
has the predominance. The endeavour
to destroy the enemy's force has a
positive object and leads to positive re-
sults, of which the final aim is the
conquest of the enemy. The preser-
vation of our own forces has a negative
object, leads ^therefore to the defeat of
the enemy's intentions, that is to pure
resistance, of which the final aim can be
nothing more than to prolong the dura-
tion of the contest, so that the enemy
shall exhaust himself in it.

The effort with a positive object calls
into existence the act of destruction ; the
effort with the negative object awaits it.

How far this state of expectation should
and may be carried we shall enter into
more particularly in the theory of attack
and defence, at the origin of which we
again find ourselves. Here we shall con-
tent ourselves with saying that the await*
ing must be no absolute endurance, and
that in the action botmd up with it the
destruction of the enemy's armed force en-
gaged in this conflict may be the aim just
as well as anything else. It would, there-
fore, be a great error in the fundamental
idea to suppose that the consequence of
the negative course is that we are pre-

cluded from choosing the destruction of
the enemy's military force as our object,
and must prefer a bloodless solution.
The advantage which the negative effort
gives may certainly lead to that, but
only at the risk of its not being the most
advisable method, as that question is de-
pendent on totally different conditions,
resting not with ourselves but with our
opponents. This other bloodless way
cannot, therefore, be looked upon at
a]l as the natural means of satisfying
our great anxiety to spare our forces;
on the contrary, when circumstances
are not favourable to that way, it would
be the means of completely ruining them.
Very many Oenercds have fallen into
this error, and been ruined by it The
only necessary effect resulting from the
superiority of the negative effort is the
delay of the decision, so that the party
acting takes refuge in that way, as it
were, in the expectation of the decisive
moment. The consequence of that is
generally the postponement of the action as
much as possible in time and also in space,
in so far as space is in connection with
it. K the moment has arrived in which
this can no longer be done without
ruinous disadvantage, then the advan-
tage of the negative must be considered
as exhausted, and then comes forward
unchanged the effort for the destruction
of the enemy's force, which was kept
back by a counterpoise, but never dis-
carded*

We have seen, therefore, in the fore-
going reflections, that there are many
ways to the aim, that is, to the attain-
ment of the political object ; but that the
only means is the combat, and that con-
sequently everything is subject to a
supreme law : which is the decision hy
arms; that where this is really demanded
by one, it is a redress which cannot be
refused by the other ; that, therefore, a
belligerent who takes any other way
must make sure that his opponent will
not take this means of redress, or his

onAP. m.]

THE GENIUS FOR WAR,

23

cause may be lost in that supreme conrt ;
that, therefore, in short, the destruction
of the enemy's armed force amongst all
the objects which can be pursued in war
appears always as that one which over-
rules all.

What may be achieved by combina-
tions of another kind in war we shall
only learn in the sequel, and naturally
only by degrees. We content ourselves
here with acknowledging in general their
possibility, as something pointing to the
difference between the reality and the con-
ception, and to the influence of particular
circumstances. But we could not avoid
showing at once that the bloody solution of
the crisis, the effort for the destruction
of the enemy's force, is the firstborn son
of war. If when political objects are un-
important, motives weak, the excitement
of forces small, a cautious commander
tries in aU kinds of ways, without great
crises and bloody solutions, to twist him-
self skilfully into a peace through the
characteristic weaknesses of his enemy
in the field and in the Cabinet, we have

no right to find fault with him, if the
premises on which he acts are well
founded and justified by success; still
we must require him to remember that
he only travels on forbidden tracks,
where the Qtod of War may surprise
him ; that he ought always to keep his
eye on the enemy, in order that he may
not have to defend himself with a dress
rapier if the enemy takes up a sharp
sword.

The consequences of the nature of war,
how end and means act in it, how in the
modifications of reality it deviates some-
times more sometimes less from its strict
original conception, plays backwards and
forwards, yet always remains under that
strict conception as under a supreme
law : all this we must retain in idea, and
bear constantly in mind in the considera-
tion of each of the succeeding subjects, if
we would rightly comprehend their true
relations and proper importance, and not
become involved incessantly in the most
glaring contradictions with the reality,
and at last with our own selves.

CHAPTER III.

THE GENIUS FOR WAR.

Every special calling in life, if it is to be
followed with success, requires peculiar
qualifications of understanding and soid.
Where these are of a high order, and
manifest themselves by extraordinary
achievements the mind to which they be-
long is termed genius.

We know very well that this word is
used in many sig^nifications, which are
very different both in extent and nature,
and that with many of these significa-
tions it is a very difficult task to define
the essence of Genius ; but as we neither
profess to be philosopher nor gramma-

rian, we must be allowed to keep to
the meaning usual in ordinary language,
and to understand by ''genius" a very
high mental capacity for certain employ-
ments.

We wish to stop for a moment over
this faculty and dignity of the mind, in
order to vindicate its title, and to
explain more fully the meaning of the
conception. But we shall not dwell on
that (genius) which has obtained its title
through a very great talent, at genius
properly so-called, that is a conception
which has no defined limits, and what

24

ON WAR.

[book I.

we have to do is to bring under con-
sideration every common tendency of the
powers of the mind and soul towards the
business of war, the whole of which com-
mon tendencies we may look upon as
the essence of military genius. We say
" common," for just therein consists
military genius, that it is not one single
quality bearing upon war, as, for in-
stance, courage, while other qualities
of mind and soul are wanting, -or
have a direction which is unserviceable
for war ; but that it is an harmonious asso-
eiation of powers ^ in which one or other
may predominate, but none must be in
opposition.

If every combatant required to be more
or less endowed with military genius,
theji our armies wotdd be very weak ; for
as it implies a peculiar bent of the in-
telligent powers, therefore it can only
rarely be found where the mental powers
of a people are called into requisition, and
trained in so many different ways. The
fewer the employments followed by a
nation, the more tiiat of arms predomin-
ates, so much the more prevd.ent mili-
tary genius must also be found. But this
merely applies to its prevalence, by no
means to its degree, for that depends on
the general state of intellectual cidture in
the country. K we look at a wild, war-
like race, then we find a warlike spirit in
individuals much more common than in a
civilised people ; for in the former almost
every warrior possesses it ; whilst in the
civilised, whole masses are only carried
away by it from necessity, never by incli-
nation. But amongst uncivilised people
we never find a really great genercd, and
very seldom what we can properly call a
military genius, because that requires a
development of the intelligent powers
which cannot be found in an uncivilised
state. That a civilised people may also
have a warlike tendency and development
is a matter of course ; and the more this
is general, the more frequently also will
military spirit be found in individuals

in their armies. Now as this coincides in
such case with the higher degree of
civilisation, therefore from such nations
have issued forth the most brilliant
military exploits, as the Bomans and
the French have exemplified. The
greatest names in these and in all other
nations that have been renowned in
war, belong strictly to epochs of higher
cidture.

From this we may infer how great a
share the intelligent powers have in supe-
rior military genius. We shall now look
more closely into this point.

War is the province of danger, and
therefore courage above all things is the
first quality of a warrior.

Courage is of two kinds ; first, physical
courage, or courage in presence of danger
to the person: and next, moral cour-
age, or courage before responsibility;
whether it be before the judgment-seat
of external authority, or of the inner
power, the conscience. We only speak
here of the first.

Courage before danger to the person,
again, is of two kinds. First, it may be
indifference to danger, whether proceed-
ing from the organism of the individual,
contempt of death, or habit : in any of
these cases it is to be regarded as a per-
manent condition.

Secondly, courage may proceed from
positive motives ; such as personal pride,
patriotism, enthusiasm of any kind. In
this case courage is not so much a nor-
mal condition as an impulse.

We may conceive that the two kinds
act differently. The first kind is more
certain, because it has become a second
nature, never forsakes the man : the
second often leads him further. In the
first there is more of firmness, in the
second of boldness. The first leaves the
judgment cooler, the second raises its
power at times, but often bewilders it.
The two combined make up the most
perfect kind of courage.

War is the province of physical exer-

CHAP, ni.]

TEE GENIUS FOE WAR.

25

tion and suifering. In order not to be
completely overcome by them, a certain
strength of body and mind is required,
which, either natural or acquired, pro-
duces indifference to them. With these
qualifications under the guidance of
simply a sound understanding, a man is
at once a proper instrument for war; and
these are the qualifications so generally
to be met with amongst wild and half-
civilised tribes. If we go further in the
demands which war makes on its votaries,
then we fijid the powers of the imder-
standing predominating. War is the pro-
vince of uncertainty : three -fourths of
those things upon which action in war
must be calculated, are hidden more or
less in the clouds of great uncertainty.
Here, then, above all a fine and penetra-
ting mind is called for, to grope out the
truth by the tact of its judgment

A common understanding may, at one
time, perhaps hit upon this truth by
accident: an extraordinary courage, at
another time, may compensate for the
want of this tact : but in the majority of
cases the average result will always bring
to light the deficient tmderstanding.

War is the province of chance. In no
sphere of human activity is such a margin
to be left for this intruder, because none
is so much in constant contact with him
on all sides. He increases the tmcer-
tainty of every circumstance, and de-
ranges the course of events.

From this uncertainty of all intelli-
gence and suppositions, this continual
interposition of chance, the actor in war
constantly finds things different to his
expectations; and this cannot fail to
have an influence on his plans, or at
least' on the presumptions connected with
these plans. If this influence is so great
as to render the pre-determined plan
completely nugatory, then, as a rule, a
new one must be substituted in its place ;
but at the moment the necessary data
are often wanting for this, because in
the course of action circumstances press

for immediate decision, and allow no
time to look about for fresh data,
often not enough for mature considera-
tion. But it much more often happens
that the correction of one premise, and
the knowledge of chance events which
have arisen, are not quite sufS.cient
to overthrow our plans completely, but
only suffice to produce hesitation. Our
knowledge of circumstances has in-
creased, but our uncertainty, instead of
having diminished, has only increased.
The reason of this is, that we do not gain
all our experience at once, but by de-
grees ; so our determinations continue to
be assailed incess€intly by fresh experi-
ence ; and the mind, if we may use the
expression, must always be under arms.

Now, if it is to get safely through this
perpetual conflict with the unexpected,
two qualities are indispensable: in the first
place an understanding which, even in
the midst of this intense obscurity, is
not without some traces of inner light,
which lead to the truth, and then the
courage to follow this faint light. The
first is figuratively expressed by the
French phrase coup (Tml, The other
is resolution. As the battle is the feature
in WBX to which attention was originally
chiefly directed, and as time and space are
important elements in it, and were more
particularly so when cavalry with their
rapid decisions were the chief arm, the
idea of rapid and correct decision related
in the first instance to the estimation of
these two elements, and to denote the
idea an expression was adopted which
actually only points to a correct judg-
ment by eye. Many teachers of the art
of war also then gave this limited signifi-
cation as the definition of coup d^cBtl.
But it is undeniable that all able de-
cisions formed in the moment of action
soon came to be tmderstood by the ex-
pression, as for instance the hitting upon
the right point of attack, etc. It is,
therefore, not only the physical, but more
frequently the mental eye which is meant

26

ON WAR.

[book I.

in e<mp tTcnl. Naturally, the ezpreesion,
like the thing, is always more in its plaoe
in the field of tactics : still, it must not
be wanting in strategy, inasmuch as in
it rapid decisions are often necessary.
If we strip this conception of that which
the expression has g^ven it of the over
figurative and restricted, then it amounts
simply to the rapid discovery of a truth,
which to the ordinary mind is either not
visible at all or only becomes so after
long examination and reflection.

Besolution is an act of courage in
single instances, and if it becomes a cha-
racteristic trait, it is a habit of the mind.
But here we do not mean courage in
face of bodily danger, but in face of
responsibility, therefore to a certain
extent against moral danger. This has
been often called courage d*e9pritf on the
ground that it springs from the under-
standing; nevertheless, it is no act of
the understanding on that account ;
it is an act of feeling. Mere intelli-
gence is still not courage, for we
often see the cleverest people devoid of
resolution. The mind must, therefore,
first awaken the feeling of courage, and
then be guided and supported by it,
because in momentaiy emergencies the
man is swayed more by his feelings than
his thoughts.

We have assigned to resolution the
office of removing the torments of doubt,
and the dangers of delay, when there are no
sufficient motives for guidance. Through
the unscrupulous use of language which
is prevalent, this term is often applied to
the mere propensity to daring, to bravery,
boldness, or temerity. But, when there
are sufficient motives in the man, let them
bie objective or subjective, true or false,
we have no right to speak of his resolu-
tion ; for, when we do so, we put our-
selves in his place, and we throw into the
scale doubts which did not exist with him.

Here, there is no question of anything
but of strength and weakness. We are not
pedantic enough to dispute with the use

of language about this little misapplica-
tion, our observation is only intended to
remove wrong objections.

This resolution now, which overcomes
the state of doubting, can only be called
forth by the intellect and in fact by a
peculiar tendency of the same. We
maintain that the mere union of a su-
perior understanding and the neces-
sary feelings are not sufficient to make
up resolution. There are persons who
possess the keenest perception for the
most difficult problems, who are also not
fearful of responsibilify, and yet in cases
of difficulty cannot come to a resolution.
Their courage and their sagacity operate
independendy of each other, do not give
each other a hand, and on that account
do not produce resolution as a result.
The forerunner of resolution is an act of
the mind making evident the necessity
of venturing, and thus influencing the
will. This quite peculiar direction of the
mind, which conquers every other fear in
man by the fear of wavering or doubting,
is what makes np resolution in strong
minds: therefore, in our opinion, men
who have little intelligence can never be
resolute. They may act without hesita-
tion under perplexing circumstances, but
then they act without reflection. Now of
course, when a man acts without reflec-
tion he cannot be at variance with him-
self by doubts, and such a mode of action
may now and then lead to the right point;
but we say now as before, it is the average
result which indicates the existence of
military genius. Should our assertion
appear extraordinary to any one, because
he knows many a resolute hussar-officer
who is no deep thinker, we must remind
him that the question here is about a
peculiar direction of the mind, and not
about great thinking powers.

We believe, therefore, that resolution
is indebted to a special direction of the
mind for its existence, a direction which
belongs to a strong head, rather than to
a brmiant one. In corroboration of

CHAP* m.J

THE GBNIUS FOR WAR.

27

this genealogy of resolution we may add
that there have been many inBtanoes of
men who have shown the greatest reso*
lution in an inferior rank, and have lost
it in a higher position. While on the
one hand they are obliged to resolve, on
the other they see the dangers of a
wrong decision, and as they are sur-
rounded with things new to them,
their understanding loses its original
force, and they become only the more
timid the more they become aware of the
danger of the irresolution into which
they have fallen, and the more they have
formerly been in the habit of acting on
the spur of the moment.

From the coup tTcsil and resolution,
we are naturally led to speak of its
kindred quality, presence of mind^ which
in a region of the unexpected like
war must act a great part, for it is indeed
nothing but a great conquest over the
unexpected. As we admire presence
of mind in a pithy answer to anything
said unexpectedly, so we admire it in a
ready expedient on sudden danger.
Neither the answer nor the expedient
need be in themselves extraordinary, if
they only hit the point ; for that which as
the result of mature reflection would be
nothing unusual, therefore insignificant
in its impression on us, may as an instanta*
neous act of the mind produce a pleasing
impression. The expression '^ presence
of mind" certainly denotes very fitly the
readiness and rapidity of the help ren-
dered by the mind.

Whether this noble quality of a man
is to be ascribed more to the peculiarity
of his mind or to the equanimity of
his feelings, depends on l3ie nature of
the case, although neither of the two can
be entirely wanting. A telling repartee
bespeaks rather a ready wit, a ready ex-
pedient on sudden danger implies more
particularly a well-balanced mind.

If we take a general view of the four
elements composing the atmosphere in
which war moves, of danger^ physical

efforts^ uncertainty^ and ^nce^ it is easy to
conceive that a great force of mind and
understanding are requisite to be able to
make way with safety and success amongst
such opposing elements, a force which,
according to the difEerent modifications
arising out of circumstances, we find
termed by military writers and annalists
as energy y firmness^ staunehnesSf strength of
mind and character. All these manifes-
tations of the heroic nature might be re-
garded as one and the same power of
volition, modified according to circum-
stances; but nearly related as these
things are to each other, still they are
not one and the same, and it is desirable
for us to disting^sh here a little more
closely at least the action of the powers
of the soul in relation to them.

In the first place, to make the concep-
tion dear, it is essential to observe that
the weight, burden, resistance, or what-
ever it may be called, by which that force
of the soul in the general is brought to
light, is only in a very small measure the
enemy's activity, the enemy's resistance,
the enemy's action directly. The enemy's
activity only affects the general directly in
the first place in relation to his person,
without disturbing his action as com-
mander. If the enemy, instead of two
hours, resists for four, the commander
instead of two hours is four hours in
danger ; this is a quantity which plainly
diminiahes the higher the rank of the
commander. What is it for one in the
post of commander-in-chief? It is
nothing.

8econdly,althoughthe opposition offered
by the enemy has a direct effect on the
commander through the loss of means aris-
ing from prolonged resistance, and the
responsibility connected with that loss,
and his force of will is first tested and
called forth by these anxious considera-
tions ; still we maintain that this is not the
heaviest burden by far which he has to
bear, because he has only himself to settle
with. All the other effects of the enemy's

28

ON WAR.

[book r.

resistance act directly upon the combat-
ants under his command, and through
them re- act upon him.

As long as a troop full of good courage
fights with zeal and spirit, it is seldom
necessary for the chief to show great
energy of purpose in the pursuit of his
object. But, as soon as difficulties arise
— and that must always happen when
great results are at stake — ^then things
no longer move on of themselves like a
well-oiled machine, the machine itself
then begins to oifer resistance, and to
overcome this, the commander must have
a great force of wilL By this resistance,
we must not exactly suppose disobedience
and murmurs, although these are frequent
enough with particular individuals ; it is
the whole feeling of the dissolution
of aU physical and moral power, it is
the heart-rending sight of the bloody
sacrifice which the commander has to
contend with in himself and then, in all
others who directly or indirectly transfer
to him their impressions, feelings, anxie-
tiei^ and desires. As the forces in one indi-
vidual after another become prostrated,
and can no longer be excited and sup-
ported by an effort of his own will, the
whole inertia of the mass gradually rests
its weight on the will of the commander :
by the spark in his breast, by the light of
his spirit, the spark of purposes, the light
of hope must be kindled afresh in others :
in so far only as he is equal to this, he
stands above the masses, and continues
to be their master ; whenever that influ-
ence ceases and his own spirit is no longer
strong enough to revive the spirit of all
others, the masses drawing him down
with them sink into the lower region of
animal nature, which shrinks £rom danger
and knows not shame. These are the
weights which the courage and intelligent
faculties of the military commander have
to overcome, if he is to make his name
illustrious. They increase with the masses,
and, therefore, if the forces in question
are to continue equal to the burden, thoy

must rise in proportion to the height of
the station.

Energy in action expresses the strength
of the motive through which the action
is excited, let the motive have its origin
in a conviction of the understanding, or
in an impulse. But the latter can hardly
ever be wanting where great force is to
show itself.

Of all the noble feelings which fill
the human heart in the exciting tu-
mult of battle, none, we must ad-
mit, are so powerful and constant as
the soul's thirst for honour and renown,
which the German language treats so
unfairly, and tends to depreciate by
the unworthy associations in the words
Ehrgeiz (g^eed of honour) and Ruhmmeht
(hankering after glory). No doubt it is
just in war that the abuse of these proud
aspirations of the soul must bring upon
the human race the most shocking
outrages; but by their, origin, they
are certainly to be counted amongst the
noblest feelings which belong to human
nature, and in war they are the vivifying
principle which gives the enormous body
a spirit. Although other feelings may be
more general in their influence, and many
of them — such as love of country, fa-
naticism, revenge, enthusiasm of every
kind — may seem to stand higher, the
thirst for honour and renown still re-
mains indispensable. Those other feel-
ings may rouse the great masses in
general, and excite them more power-
fully, but they do not give the leader
a desire to will more than others,
which is an essential requisite in his
position, if he is to make himself dis-
tinguished in it. They do not, like a
thirst fdr honour, make the military act
specially the property of the leader, which
he strives to turn to the best account ;
where he ploughs with toil, sows with
care, that he may reap plentifully. It is
through these aspirations we have been
spealuDg of in commanders, from the
highest to the lowest, this sort of energy,

CHAP, m.]

THE GENIUS FOR WAE.

29

this spirit of emulation, these incentives,
that the action of armies is chiefly ani-
mated and made successful. And now
as to that which specially concerns the
head of all, we ask, Has there ever been
a great commander destitute of the love
of honour, or is such a character even
conceivable ?

Firmness denotes the resistance of the
will in relation to the force of a single
blow, staunchness in relation to a con-
tinuance of blows. Close as is the ana-
logy between the two, and often as the
one is used in place of the other, still
there is a notable difference between
them which cannot be mistaken, inas-
much as firmness against a single power-
ful impression may have its root in the
mere strength of a feeling, but staunch-
ness must be supported rather by the
understanding, for the greater the dura-
tion of an action the more systematic
deliberation is connected with it, and
&om this staunchness partly derives its
power.

K we now turn to strength of mind or
soulf then the first question is, What are
we to imderstand thereby ?

Plainly it is not vehement expressions
of feeling, nor easily excited passions, for
that woiild be contrary to all the usage of
language ; but the power of listening to
reason in the midst of the most intense
excitement, in the storm of the most vio-
lent passions. Shoidd this power depend
on strength of understanding alone ? We
doubt it. The fact that there are men
of the greatest intellect who cannot com-
mand themselves, certainly proves no-
thing to the contrary ; for we might say
that it perhaps requires an imderstand-
ing of a powerful rather than of a com-
prehensive nature : but we believe we
shaU be nearer the truth if we assume
that the power of submitting oneself to
the control of the understanding, even
in moments of the most violent excite-
ment of the feelings, that power which
we call sel/'Command, has its root in the

heart itself. It is, in point of fact,
another feeling, which, in strong minds
balances the excited passions without
destroying them ; and it is only through
this equilibrium that the mastery of the
imderstanding is secured. This counter-
poise is nothing but a sense of the dig-
nity of man, that noblest pride, that
deeply-seated desire of the soul, always
to act as a being endued with under-
standing and reason. We may, there-
fore, say that a strong mind is one which
does not lose its balance even under the
most violent excitement.

If we cast a glance at the variety to be
observed in the human character in
respect to feeling, we find, first, some
people who have very little excitability,
who are called phlegmatic or indolent.

Secondly, some very excitable, but
whose feelings still never overstep certain
limits, and who are therefore known as
men full of feeling, but sober-minded.

Thirdly, those who are very easily
roused, whose feelings blaze up quickly u^au
and violently like gunpowder, but do not
last.

Fourthly, and lastly, those who cannot
be moved by slight causes, and who gene-
rally are not to be roused suddenly, but
only gradually; but whose feelings be-
come very powerful, and are much more
lasting. These are men with strong
passions, l3ring deep and latent.

This difference of character lies, pro-
bably, close on the confines of the phy-
sical powers which move the human organ-
ism, and belongs to that amphibious
organisation which we call the nervous
system, which appears to be partly mate-
rial, partly spiritual. With our weak
philosophy, we shall not proceed farther
in this mysterious field. But it is im-
portant for us to sx)end a moment over
the effects which these different natures
have on action in war, and to see how far
a great strength of mind is to be expected
from them.

Indolent men cannot easily be thrown

30

0^ WAR.

[book I.

ont of their equanimity ; but we cannot
certainly say there is strong^ of mind
where there is a want of all manifesta*
tion of power. At the same time it is
not to be denied that such men have a
certain peculiar aptitude for war, on ac-
count of their constant equanimity. They
often want the positive motiye to action,
impulse, and consequently activity, but
they are not apt to throw things into
disorder.

The peculiarity of the second dass is,
that they are easily excited to act on
trifling grounds; but in g^at matters
they are easily overwhelmed. Men of
this kind show great activity in helping
an unfortunate individual; but by the
distress of a whole nation they are only
inclined to despond, not roused to action.

Such people are not deficient in either
activity or equanimity in war ; but they
will never accomplish anything great
unless a g^eat intellectual force fdmishes
the motive, and it is very seldom that a
strong, independent mind is combined
with such a character.

Excitable, inflammable feelings, are in
themselves little suited for practical life,
and therefore they are not very fit for
war. They have certainly the advantage
of strong impulses, but that cannot long
sustain them. At the same time, if the
excitability in such men takes the direc-
tion of courage, or a sense of honour;
they may often be very useful in inferior
positions in war, because the action in
war over which commanders in inferior
positions have control, is generally of
shorter duration- Here one courageous
resolution, one effervescence of the forces
of the soul, will often suffice. A brave
attack, a soul-stirring hurrah, is the work
of a few moments ; whilst a brave contest
on the battle-field is the work of a day,
and a campaign the work of a year.

Owing to the rapid movement of their
feelings, it is doubly difficult for men
of this description to preserve the equi-
librium of the mind; therefore they

frequently lose head, and that is the
worst phase in their nature ae^ respects
the conduct of war. But it would be
contrary to experience to maintain that
very excitable spirits can never preserve
a steady equilibrium, that is, to say that
they cannot do so even under the strongest
excitement Why should they not have
the sentiment of self-respect, for, as a
nde, they are men of a noble nature ?
This feeling is seldom wanting in them,
but it has not time to produce an efiPect.
After an outburst they suffer most from a
feeling of inward humiliation. If through
education, self-observance, and experi-
ence of life, they have learned, sooner or
later, the means of being on their guard,
so that at the moment of powerful excite-
ment they are conscious, betimes, of the
counteracting force within their own
breasts, then even such men may have
great strength of mind.

Lastly, those who are difficult to move,
but on that account susceptible of very
deep feelings ; men who stand in the
same relation to the preceding as red heat
to a flame are the best adapted by means
of their Titanic strength to roll away the
enormous masses, by which we may figu-
ratively represent the difficulties which
beset command in war. The effect of
their feelings is like the movement of a
g^reat body, slower, but more irresistible.

Although such men are not so likely to
be suddenly surprised by their feelings
and carried away, so as to be afterwards
ashamed of themselves like the preceding,
still it would be contrary to experience to
believe that they can never lose their
equanimity, or be overcome by blind pas-
sion ; on Uie contrary, this must always
happen whenever the noble pride of
self-control is wanting, or as often as it
has not sufficient weight We see exam-
ples of this most frequently in men of
noble minds belonging to savage nations,
where the low degree of mental cultiva-
tion favours always the dominance of the
passions. But even amongst the most

CHAP. lU.]

THE GENIUS FOR WAR.

31

civilised classes in civilised states, life is
full of examples of this kind — of men
carried away by the yiolence of their
passions, like the poacher of old chained
to the stAg in the forest.

We, therefore, say once more a strong
mind is not one that is merely suscep-
tible of strong excitement, but one which
can maintain its serenity under the most
powerful excitement ; so that, in spite of
the storm in the breast, the perception
and judgment can act with perfect free-
dom, like the needle of the compass in
the storm-tossed ship.

By the term strength of eharaeteTj or
simply character, is denoted tenacity of
conyiction, let it be the result of our own
or of others' views, and whether they are
principles, opinions, momentary inspira-
tions, or any kind of emanations of the
understanduig ; but this kind of firmness
certainly cannot manifest itself if the
views themselves are subject to frequent
change. This frequent change need not
be the consequence of external influences ;
it may proceed from the continuous acti-
vity of our own mind, in which case it
indicates a characteristic unsteadiness of
mind. Evidently we should not say of a
man who changes his views every moment,
however much the motives of change may
originate with himself, that he has cha-
racter. Only those men therefore can be
said to have this quality whose conviction
is very constant, either because it is
deeply rooted and dear in itself, little
liable to alteration, or because, as in the
case of indolent men, there is a want of
mental activity, and therefore a want of
motives to change ; or lastly, because an
explicit act of the will, derived from an
imperative maxim of the understanding,
recuses any change of opinion up to a
certain point.

Now in war, owing to the many and
powerful impressions to which the mind
IS exposed, and, in the uncertainty of all
knowledge and of all science, more things
occur to distract a man from the road he

has entered upon, to make him doubt
himself and others, than in any other
human activity.

The harrowing sight of danger and
suffering easily leads to the feelings gain-
ing ascendancy over the conviction of the
understanding ; and in the twilight which
surrounds everything, a deep clear view
is so difficult, that a change of opinion is
more conceivable and more pardonable.
It is, at all times, only conjecture or
guesses at truth which we have to act
upon. This is why differences of opin-
ion are nowhere so great as in war,
and the stream of impressions acting
counter to one's own convictions never
ceases to flow. Even the greatest impas-
sibility of mind is hardly proof against
them, because the impressions are power-
ful in their nature, and always act at the
same time upon the feelings.

When the discernment is clear and
deep, none but general principles and
views of action from a high standpoint
can be the restdt ; and on these principles
the opinion in each particular case im-
mediately under consideration lies, as it
were, at anchor. But to keep to these
results of bygone reflection in opposi-
tion to the stream of opinions and
phenomena which the present brings
with it is just the difficulty. Between
the particular case and the principle
there is often a wide space which can-
not always be traversed on a visible
chain of conclusions, and where a certain
faith in self is necessary, and a certain
amount of scepticism is serviceable.
Here often nothing else will help us but
an imperative maxim which, independent
of reflection, at once controls it: that
maxim is, in all doubtful cases to adhere
to the first opinion, and not to give it up
until a clear conviction forces us to do so.
We must firmly believe in the superior
authority of well-tried maxims, and
under the dazzlinginfluence of momentary
events not forget that their value is of
an inferior stamp. By this preference

32

ON WAR.

[book I.

which in douhtful cases we gLveto first con-
victions, by adherence to the same our ac-
tions acquire that stability and consistency
which make up what is called character.

It is easy to see how essential a well-
balanced mind is to strength of character ;
therefore, men of strong minds generally
have a g^at deal of character.

Force of character leads us to a spurious
variety of it-^ohstinaey.

It is often very difficult in concrete
cases to say where the one ends and the
other begins ; on the other hand, it does
not seem difficult to determine the differ-
ence in idea.

Obstinacy is no fault of the under-
standing ; we use the term as denoting a
resistance against our better judgment,
and it would be inconsistent to charge that
to the understanding, as the understand-
ing is the power of judgment. Obstinacy
is a fault of the feelings or heart. This
inflexibility of will, this impatience of
contradiction, have their origin only in
a particular kind of egotism, which
sets above every other pleasure that
of governing both self and others by
its own mind alone. We should call it
a kind of vanity were it not decidedly
something better. Vanity is satisfied
with mere show, but obstinacy rests
upon the enjoyment of the thing.

We say therefore, force of character
degenerates into obstinacy whenever the
resistance to opposing judgment proceeds
not from better convictions or a reliance
upon a more trustworthy maxim, but
from a feeling of opposition. If this de-
finition, as we have already admitted, is
of little assistance practically, still it will
prevent obstinacy from being considered
merely force of character intensified,
whilst it is something essentially different
— something which certainly lies dose to
it and is cognate to it, but is at the same
time so little an intensification of it that
there are very obstinate men who, from
want of understanding, have very little
force of character.

Having in these high attributes of a
great military commander made ourselves
acquainted with those qualities in which
heart and head co-operate, we now come
to a speciality of military activity which
perhaps may be looked upon as the most
marked if it is not the most import-
ant, and which only makes a demand
on the power of the mind, without regard
to the forces of feelings. It is the con-
nection which exists between war and
country or ground.

This connection is, in the first place, a
permanent condition of war, for it is im-
possible to imagine our organised armies
effecting any operation otherwise than in
some given space ; it is, secondly, of the
most decisive importance, because it modi-
fies, at times completely alters, the action
of all forces ; thirdly, while on the one
hand it often concerns the most minute
features of locality, on the other, it may
apply to immense tracts of country.

In this manner a great peculiarity is
given to the effect of this connection
of war with country and ground. If we
think of other occupations of man which
have a relation to these objects, on hor-
ticulture, agriculture, on building houses
and hydraulic works, on mining, on the
chase, and forestry, they are all confined
within very limited spaces which may be
soon explored with sufficient exactness.
But the commander in war must commit
the business he has in hand to a corre-
sponding space which his eye cannot sur^
vey, which the keenest zeal cannot always
explore, and with which, owing to the
constant changes taking place, he can
also seldom become properly acquainted.
Certainly the enemy generally is in the
same situation ; stiU, in the first place,
the difficulty, although common to both,
is not the less a difficulty, and he who by
talent and practice overcomes it will
have a great advantage on his side ; se*
condly, this equality of the difficulty on
both sides is merely an abstract supposi^
tion which is rarely realised in the par-

cttAP. ni.]

THE GENIUS FOR WAIL

33

ticular case, as one of the two opponents
(the defensive) usoallj knows much more
of the locality than his adversary.

This very peculiar difficulty must be
overcome by a natural mental gift of a
special kind which is known by the —
too restricted — term of {OrUinrC) sense of
locality. It is the power of quickly form-
ing a correct geometrical idea of any
portion of country and consequently of
being able to find one's place in it exactly
at any time. This is plainly an act of
the imagination. The perception no
doubt is formed partly by means of the
physical eye, paHly by the mind, which
fills up what is wanting with ideas derived
from Knowledge and experience, and out
of the fragments visible to the physical
eye forms a whole ; but that this whole
should present itself vividly to the reason,
should become a picture, a mentally
drawn map, that this picture should be
fixed, that the details should never again
separate themselves — all that can only be
effected by the mental faculty which we
call imagination. If some great Poet or
Painter should feel hurt that we require
from his goddess such an office ; if he
shrugs his shoulders at the notion that a
sharp gamekeeper must necessarily excel
in imag^ation, we readily grant that we
oi Jy speak here of imagination in a limited
sense, of its service in a really menial ca-
pacity. But however slight this service,
still it must be the work of that natural
gift, for if that gifb is wanting, it would
be difficult to imagine things plainly in
all the completeness of the visible. That
a good memory is a great assistance
we freely allow; but whether memoiy
is to be considered as an independent
faculty of the mind in this case, or whether
it is just that power of imagination which
here fixes these things better on the
memory, we leave undecided, as in many
respects it seems difficult upon the whole
to conceive these two mental powers apart
from each other.

That practice and mental acuteness

have much to do with it, is not to bo
denied. Puysegur, the famous Quarter-
master-Oeneral of the famous Luxem-
burgh, used to say that he had very little
confidence in himself in this respect at
first, because if he had to fetch the Pa-
role from a distance he always lost his
way.

It is natural that scope for the exer-
cise of this talent should increase along
with rank. If the Hussar and Kiflemen
in command of a patrol, must know well
all the highways and by-ways, and if for
that a few marks, a few limited powers of
observation are sufficient ; so on the
other hand the Chief of an army must
make himself familiar with the general
geographical features of a Province and
of a Country ; must always have vividly
before his eyes the direction of the
roads, rivers, and hills, without at the
same time being able to dispense with
the narrower ** sense of locality" (Ort-
sinn). No doubt information of various
kinds as to objects in general. Maps,
Books, Memoirs, and for details the
assistance of his Staff, are a great help
to him; but it is nevertheless certain
that if he has himself a talent for form-
ing an ideal picture of a country quickly
and distinctly, it lends to his action an
easier and firmer step, saves him from a
certain mental helplessness, and makes
him less dependent on others.

If this talent then is to be ascribed to
imagination, it is also almost the only
service which military activity requires
from that erratic goddess whose influence
is more hurtful than useful in other re-
spects.

We think we have now passed in re-
view those manifestations of the powers
of mind and soul which military activity
requires from human nature. Everywhere
Intellect appears as an essential co-opera-
tive force ; and thus we can Understand
how the work of war, although so plain
and simple in its effects, can never
be conducted with distinguished succoss

34

OX WAR.

[book I.

by people without distinguiBhed powers
of the underBtanding.

When we have reached this view, then
we need no longer look upon such a
natural thing as the turning an enemy's
position, which has been done a thousand
times, and a hundred other such like
things, as the result of a great effort of
genius.

Certainly one is accustomed to regard
the plain honest soldier, as the very
opposite of the man of reflection, full of
inventions and ideas, or of the brilliant
spirit shining in the ornaments of refined
education of every kind. This antithesis
is also by no means devoid of truth ; but
it does not show that the efficiency of the
soldier consists only in his courage, and
that there is no particular energy and ca-
pacity of the brain required in addition to
make a man merely what is called a true
soldier. We must again repeat that
there is nothing more common than to
hear of men losing their energy on being
raised to a higher position, to which they
do not feel themselves equal ; but we must
also remind our readers that we are
speaking of pre-eminent services, of such
as give renown in the branch of activity
to which they belong. Each grade of
command in War therefore forms its
own stratum of requisite capacity of
Fame and Honour.

An immense space lies between a
general, that is, one at the head of a
whole war, or of a theatre of war, and
his second in command, for the simple
reason that the latter is in more imme-
diate subordination to a superior autho-
rity and supervision, consequently is
restricted to a more limited sphere of
independent thought. This is why com-
mon opinion sees no room for the exercise
of high talent except in high places, and
looks upon an ordinary capacity as suffi-
cient for all beneath : this is why people
are rather inclined to look upon a sub-
ordinate general grown grey in the ser-
vice, and in whom con Hf ant discharge of

routine duties has produced a decided
poverty of mind as a man of failing in-
tellect; and, with all respect for his
bravery, to laugh at his simplicity. It
is not our object to gain for these brave
men a better lot ; that would contribute
nothing to their efficiency, and little to
their happiness ; we only wish to repre-
sent things as they are, and to expose
the error of believing that a mere bravo
without intellect can make himself dis-
tinguished in war.

As we consider distinguished talents
requisite for those who are to attain
distinction, even in inferior positions, it
naturally follows that we think highly
of those who fill with renown the place
of second in command of an army ; and
their seeming simplicity of character as
compared with a polylustor, with ready
men of business, or with Councillors
of State, must not lead us astray as to
the superior nature of their intellec-
tual activity. It happens, sometimes,
that men import the fame gained in an
inferior position into a higher one, with-
out, in reality, deserving it in the new
position : and then if they are not much
employed, and therefore not much exposed
to the risk of showing their weak points,
the judgment does not distinguish very
exactly what degree of fame is really
due to them; and thus such men are
often the occasion of too low an estimate
being formed of the characteristics re-
quired to shine in certain situations.

For each station, from the lowest up-
wards, to render distinguished services in
war, there must be a particular genius.
But the title of genius, history and the
judgment of posterity only confer, in
general, on those minds which have shone
in the highest rank, that of commandci*s-
in-chief. The reason is that here, in point
of fact, the demand on the reasoning and
intellectual powers generally is much
greater.

To conduct a whole war, or its great
acts, which wo call campaigns, to a sue-

CHAP. III. J

THE QENWS FOR WAR,

35

cessful termination, there must be an
intimate knowledge of state policy in its
higher relations. The conduct of the
war, and the policy of the State, here
coincide; and the general becomes, at
the same time, the statesman.

We do not give Charles XII. the name
of a great genius, because he could not
make the power of his sword subservient
to a higher judgment and philosophy —
could not attain by it to a glorious ob-
ject. We do not give that title to
Henry IV., because he did not live long
enough to set at rest the relations of
different States by his military activity,
and to occupy himself in that higher field
where noble feelings and a chivalrous
disposition have less to do in mastering
the enemy than in overcoming internal
dissension. •

In order that the reader may appre-
ciate all that must be comprehendea and
judged of correctly at a glance by a
general, we refer to the first chapter.
We say, the general becomes a states-
man, but he must not cease to be the
general. He takes into view all the
relations of the State on the one hand ;
on the other he must know exactly what
he can do with the means at his dis-
posal.

As the diversity and undefined limits of
all the circumstances bring a great num-
ber of things into consideration in war,
as the most of these things can only be
estimated according to probability, there-
fore if the chief of an army does not
bring to bear upon all this a mind with
an intuitive perception of the truth, a
confusion of ideas and views must take
place, in the midst of which the judgment
will become bewildered. In this sense
Buonaparte was right when he said that
many of the questions which come before
a general for decision would make pro-
blems for a mathematical calculation, not
unworthy of the powers of Newton or
Euler.

What is here required &om the higher

powers of the mind is a sense of unity, and
a judgment raised to such a compass as to
give the mind an extraordinary faculty of
vision, which, in its range, allays and sets
aside a thousand dim notions which an
ordinary understanding could only bring
to light with g^eat effort, and over which
it would exhaust itself But this higher
activity of the mind, this glance of genius
would still not become matter of history
if the qualities of temperament and cha-
racter of which we have treated did not
give it their support.

Truth alone is but a weak motive of
action with men, and hence there is
always a g^eat difference between know-
ing and wiUing, between science and art.
The man receives the strongest impulse
to action through the feelings, and the
most powerful succour, if we may use
the expression, through those mixtures
of heart and mind, which we have made
acquaintance with, as resolution, firm-
ness, perseverance, and force of cha-
racter.

If, however, this elevated condition of
heart and mind in the General did not
manifest itself in the general effects re-
sulting from it, and could only be accepted
on trust and faith, then it would rarely
become matter of history.

All that becomes known of the course
of events in war is usually very simple,
has a great sameness in appearance ; no
one on the mere relation of such events
perceives the difficulties connected with
them which had to be overcome. It is
only now and again in the memoirs of
Generals, or of &ose in their confidence,
or by reason of some special historical
inquiry directed to a particular circum-
stance that a portion of the many threads
composing the whole web is brought to
light. The reflections, mental doubts
and conflicts which precede the execution
of great acts are purposely concealed be-
cause they affect political interests, or
the recollection of them is accidentally lost
because they have been looked upon as

36

ON WAR,

mere scafifblding which had to be removed
on the completion of the building.

If, now, in conclusion, without ventur-
ing upon a closer definition of the higher
powers of the soul, we should admit a
distinction in the intelligent faculties
themselves according to the common
ideas established by language, and ask
ourselves what kind of mind comes

[book t,

closest to military genius ? then a look at
the subject as well as at experience will
tell us that searching rather than inventive
minds, comprehensive minds rather than
such as have a special bent, cool rather than
fiery heads are those to which in time of
war we should prefer to trust the welfare
of our brothers and children, the honour
and the safety of our fatherland.

CHAPTER IV.

OF DANGER IN WAK.

UsTJALLY before we have learnt what
danger really is we form an idea of it
which ia rather attractive than repulsive.
In the intoxication of enthusiasm, to fall
upon the enemy at the charge— who
cares then about bullets and men falling ?
The eyes shut for a moment, to throw
oneself against cold death, uncertain
whether we or another shall escape him,
and all this -close to the golden aim of
victory, close to the rich fruit which am-
bition thirsts for — can this be diflBcult ?
It will not be difficult, and still less will
it appear so. But such moments, which,
however, are not the work of a single
pulse-beat as is supposed, but rather like
doctors' draughts, must be taken diluted
and spoilt by mixture with time — such
moments, we say, are but few.

Let us accompany the novice to the
battle-field. As we approach, the thunder
of the cannon becoming plainer and
plainer is soon follc)wed by the howling of
shot, which attracts the attention of the
inexperienced. Balls begin to strike the
ground close to us, before and behind.
We hasten to the hill where stands the
General and his numerous Staff. Here
the dose striking of the cannon balls and

the bursting of shells is so frequent that
the seriousness of life makes itself visible
through the youthful picture of imagina-
tion. Suddenly some one known to us
falls — a shell makes its way into the
crowd and causes some involuntary move-
ments ; we begin to feel that we are no
longer perfectly at ease and collected,
even the bravest is at least to some de-
gree confused. Now, a step further into
the battle which is raging before us like
a scene in a theatre, we get to the nearest
General of Division; here ball follows
ball, and the noise of our own guns in-
creases the confusion. From the General
of Division to the Brigadier. He a man
of acknowledged bravery, keeps carefully
behind a rising ground, a house, or a
tree — a sure sign of increasing danger.
Grape rattles on the roofs of the houses
and in the fields ; cannon balls howl
over us, and plough the air in all direc-
tions, and soon there is a frequent whist-
ling of musket balls ; a step further to-
wards the troops, to that sturdy Infantry
which for hours has meiintained its firm-
ness under this heavy fire ; here the air
is filled with the hissing of balls which
announce their proximity by a short

CHAP. V.J

OF BODILY EXERTION IN WAR.

37

sharp noise as they pass within an inch
of the ear, the head, or the breast.

To add to all this, compassion strikes
the beating heart with pity, at the sight
of the maimed and fallen. The young
soldier cannot reach any of these different
strata of danger, without feeling that the
light of reason does not move here in the
same medium, that it is not refi^acted in
the same manner as in speculative con*
templation. Indeed, he must be a very
extraordinary man who, under these im-
pressions for the first time, does not lose
the power of making any instantaneous
decisions. It is true that habit soon
blunts such impressions ; in half-an-hour
we begin to be more or less indifferent
to all that is going on around us : but an

ordinaiy character never attains to com-
plete coolness, and the natural eleusticity
of mind ; and so we perceive that
here, again, ordinary qualities will not
suffice ; a thing which gains truth, the
wider the sphere of activity which is to
be filled. Enthusiastic, stoical, natural
bravery, great ambition, or also long
familiarity with danger, much of all this
there must be if all the effects produced
in this resistant medium are not to fall
far short of that which, in the student's
chamber, may appear only the ordinary
standard.

Danger in war belongs to its fi'iction ;
a correct idea of it is necessary for truth
of perception, and therefore it is brought
under notice here.

CHAPTER V.

OF BODILY EXERTION IN WAR.

If no one was allowed to pass an opinion
on the events of war, except at a moment
when he is benumbed by frost, sinking
from heat and thirst, or dying with hunger
and fatigue, we should certainly have
fewer judgments correct objectively; but
they would be so subjectively, at least ;
that is, they would contain in themselves
the 'exact relation between the person
giving the judgment and the object.
We can perceive this by observing how
modestly subdued, even spiritless and
desponding, is the opinion passed upon
the results of untoward events, by those
who have been eye-witnesses, but espe-
cially if they have been parties concerned.
This is, according to our view, a criterion
of the influence which bodily fatigue
exercises, and of the allowance to be
made for it in matters of opinion.

Amongst the many things in war for
which no tariff can be fixed, bodily effort
may be specially reckoned. Provided
there is no waste, it is a co- efficient of
all the forces, and no one can tell exactly
to what extent it may be carried. But
what is remarkable is, that just as only
a strong arm enables the archer to stretch
the bowstring to the utmost extent, so
also in war it is only by means of a great
directing spirit, that we can expect the
forces will be stretched to the utmost.
For it is one thing if an army, in conse-
quence of great misfortunes, surrounded
with danger, falls all to pieces Hke a wall
that has been thrown down, and can only
find safety in the utmost exertion of its
bodily strength ; it is another thing en-
tirely when a victorious army, drawn on
by proud feelings only, is conducted at

38

oy WAH.

[book I,

the will of its chief. The same effort
which, in the one case, might at most
excite our pity, must, in the other call
forth our admiration, because it is much
more difficult to sustain.

By this comes to light for the inex*
perienced eye, one of those things which
put fetters in the dark, as it were, on the
action of the mind, and wear out in secret
the powers of the soul.

Although here strictly, the question is
only respecting the extreme effort re-
quired by a commander from his army,
by a loader from his followers, therefore
of the spirit to demand it, of the art of
getting it; still the personal physical
exertion of generals and of the chief com-
mander, must not be overlooked. Having
brought the analysis of war conscien-
tiously up to this point, we could not but
take accoimt also of the weight of this
small remaining residue.

We have spoken here of bodily effort,
chiefly because, like danger, it belongs

to the fundamental causes of friction,
and because its indefinite quantity makes
it like an elastic body, the friction of
which is well known to be difficult to
calculate.

To check the abuse of these con-
siderations, of such a survey of things
which aggravate the difficulties of war,
nature has given our judgment a guide
in our sensibilities. Just as an indivi-
dual cannot with advantage refer to his
personal deficiencies if he is insulted and
ill-treated, but may well do so if he has
successfully repelled the affront, or has
fully revenged it, so no Commander or
army will lessen the impression of a dis-
graceful defeat by depicting the danger,
the distress, the exertions, things which
would inmiensely enhance the glory of a
victory. Thus, our feeling, which after
all is only a higher kind of judgment,
forbids us to do what seems an act of
justice to which our judgment would be
inclined.

CHAPTER VI.

INFORMATION IN WAR.

By the word '^ Information," we denote
all the knowledge which we have of the
enemy and his country; therefore, in
fact, the foundation of all our ideas and
actions. Let us just consider the nature
of this foundation, its want of trustworthi-
ness, its changefulness, and we shall soon
feel what a dangerous edifice war is, how
easily it may fall to pieces and bury us
in its ruins. For although it is a maxim
in all books that we should trust only
certain information, that we must be
always suspicious ; that is only a miser-
able book-comfort, belonging to that de-

scription of knowledge in which writers
of systems and compendiums take refuge
for want of anything better.

Great part of the information obtained
in war is contradictory, a still greater
part is false, and by far the greatest part
is of a doubtful character. What is re-
quired of an officer is a certain power of
discrimination, which only knowledge of
men and things and good judgment can
give; The law of probability must be
his guide. This is not a trifling difficulty
even in respect of the first plans, which
can be formed in the chamber outside the

CHAP, vii.j

FRICTIOX IN JFAB.

39

real sphere of war ; but it is enormously
increased when in the thick of war itself
one report follows hard upon the heels of
another; it is then fortunate if these
reports in contradicting each other, show
a certain balance of probability, and
thus themselves call forth a scrutiny.
It is much worse for the inexperienced
when accident does not render him this
service, but one report supports another,
confirms it, magnifies it, fiLuishes off the
picture with firei^ touches of colour, until
necessity in urgent haste forces from us
a resolution which will soon be discovered
to be folly, all those reports having been
lies, exaggerations, errors, &c., &c. In
a few words, most reports are false, and
the timidity of men acts as a multiplier
of lies and untruths. As a general rule
every one is more inclined to lend cre-
dence to the bad than the good. Every
one is inclined to magnify the bad in
some measure, and although the alarms
which are thus propagated, like the waves
of the sea, subside into themselves,
still, like them, without any apparent
cause they rise again. Firm in reliance
on his own better convictions, the chief
must stand like a rock against which the
sea breaks its fury in vain. The rdU is
not easy ; he who is not by nature of a
buoyant disposition, or trained by expe-
rience in war, and matured in judgment,
may let it be his rule to do violence to
his own natural conviction by inclining

from the side of fear to that of hope;
only by that means will he be able to
preserve his balance. This difB.culty
of seeing things correctly, which is
one of the greatest frictions in war makes
things appear quite different to what was
expected. The impression of the senses
is stronger than the force of the ideas
resulting from methodical reflection, and
this goes so far that no important under-
taking was ever yet carried out without
the Commander having to subdue new
doubts in himself at the time of com-
mencing the execution of his work. Or-
dinary men who follow the suggestions
of others become, therefore, generally
undecided on the spot ; they think that
they have found circumstances different
to what they had expected, and this view
gains strength by dieir again pelding
to the suggestions of others. But even
the man who has made his own plans
when he comes to see things with his own
eyes, will often think he has done wrong.
Firm reliance on self must make him
proof against the seeming pressure of
the moment ; his first conviction will
in the end prove true, when the fore-
groimd scenery which fate has pushed on
to the stage of war, with its accompani-
ments of terrific objects is drawn aside,
and the horizon extended. This is one of
the great chasms which separate concept
tt'on from execution.

CHAPTER VII.

FRICTION IN WAR.

As long as we have no personal know-
ledge of war, we cannot conceive
where those difficulties lie of which
so much is said, and what that genius,
and those extraordinary mental powers

required in a general have really to do.
All appears so simple, all the requisite
branches of knowledge appear so plain,
all the combinations so unimportant, that,
in comparison with them, the^ easiest pro-

40

ON wah.

[book I.

blem in higher mathematics impresses us
with a certain scientific dignity. But if
we have seen war, all becomes intelli-
gible ; and still, after all, it is extrefliely
difficult to describe what it is which
brings about this change, to specify this
invisible and completely efficient Factor.

Everything is very simple in war, but
the simplest thing is difficult. These
difficulties accumulate and produce a
friction, which no man can imagine
exactly who has not seen war. Suppose
now a traveller, who, towards evening,
expects to accomplish the two stages at
the end of his day's journey, four or five
leagues, with post horses, on the high
road — it is nothing. He arrives now at
the last station but one, finds no horses,
or very bad ones ; then a hilly country,
bad roads ; it is a dark night, and he is
glad when, after a great deal of trouble,
he reaches the next station, and finds
there some miserable accommodation.
So in war, through the influence of an
infinity of petty circumstances, which
cannot properly be described on paper,
things disappoint us, and we fall short of
the mark. A powerful iron will over-
comes this friction, it crushes the obsta*
cles, but certainly the machine along
with them. We shall often meet with this
result. Like an obelisk, towards which
the principal streets of a place converge,
the strong will of a proud spirit, stands
prominent and commanding, in the mid-
dle of the art of war.

Friction is the only conception which, in
a general way. corresponds to that which
distinguishes real war from war on paper.
The military machine, the army and all
belonging to it, is in fact simple; and
appears, on this account, easy to manage.
But let us reflect that no part of it is in
one piece, that it is composed entirely of
individuals, each of which keeps up its
own friction in all directions. Theoreti-
cally all sounds very well; the commander
of a battalion is responsible for the execu-
tion of the order given ; and as the

battalion by its discipline is glued to-
gether into one piece, and the c^ief must
be a man of acknowledged zeal, the beam
turns on an iron pin with little friction.
But it is not so in reality, and all that is
exaggerated and false in such a concep-
tion manifests itself at once in war. The
battalion always remains composed of a
number of men, of whom, if chance so
wills, the most insignificant is able to
occasion delay, and even irregularity.
The danger which war brings with it,
the bodily exertions which it requires,
augment this evil so much, that they may
be regarded as the greatest causes of it.

This enormous friction, which is not
concentrated, as in mechanics, at a few
points, is therefore everywhere brought
into contact with chance, and thus facts
take place upon which it was impossible
to cidculate, their chief origin being
chance. As an instance of one such chance,
take the weather. Here, the fog prevents
the enemy from being discovered in time,
a battery from firing at the right mo-
ment, a report from reaching the general ;
there, the rain prevents a battalion from
arriving, another from reaching in right
time, because, instead of three, it had to
march perhaps eight hours ; the cavalry
from charging effectively because it is
stuck fast in heavy ground.

These are only a few incidents of detail
by way of elucidation, that the reader
may be able to follow the author, for
whole volumes might be written on these
difficulties. To avoid this, and still to
give a clear conception of the host of
small difficulties to be contended with in
war, we might go on heaping up illustra-
tions, if we were not afraid of being tire-
some. But those who have already
comprehended us will permit us to add
a few more.

Activity in war is movement in a re-
sistant medium. Just as a man in water
is unable to perform with ease and regu-
larity the most natural and simplest
movement, that of walking, so in war,

CHAP. VIII.]

CONCLUDING REMARKS, BOOK L

41

with ordinary powers, one cannot keep
even the line of mediocrity. This is the
reason that the correct theorist is like
a swimming master, who teaches on dry
land movements which are required in the
water, which must appear grotesque and
ludicrous to those who forget about the
water. This is also why theorists,
who have never plunged in themselves,
or who cannot deduce any generalities
^m their experience, are unpractical
and even absurd, because they only
teach what every one knows — how to
walk.

Further, every war is rich in particular
facts ; while, at the same time, each is an
unexplored sea, full of rocks, which the
general may have a suspicion of, but
which he has never seen with his eye,
and round which, moreover, he must
steer in the night. If a contrary wind
also springs up, that is, if any great
accidental event declares itself adverse to
him, then the most consummate skill,
presence of mind and energy, are re-
quired; whilst to those who only look
on from a distance, all seems to proceed
with the utmost ease. The knowledge of
this friction is a chief part of that so often
talked of, experience in war, which is
required in a good general. Certainly,
he is not the best general in whose mind
it assumes the greatest dimensions, who
is the most overawed by it (this includes
that class of over-anxious generals, of
whom there are so many amongst the
experienced) ; but a general must be

aware of it that he may overcome it,
where that is possible ; and that he may
not expect a degree of precision in results
which is impossible on account of this
very friction. Besides, it can never be
learnt theoretically ; and if it could, there
would still be wanting that experience of
judgment which is called tact, and which
is always more necessary in a field full of
innumerable small and diversified objects,
than in great and decisive cases, when
one's own judgment may be aided by
consultation with others. Just as the
man of the world, through tact of judg-
ment which has become habit, speaks,
acts, and moves only as suits the occa-
sion, so the officer, experienced in war,
will always, in great and small mat-
ters, at every pulsation of war as we may
say, decide and determine suitably to the
occasion. Through this experience and
practice, the idea comes to his mind of it-
self, that so and so will not suit. And thus
he will not easily place himself in a posi-
tion by which he is compromised, which,
if it often occurs in war, shakes aU the
foundations of confidence, and becomes
extremely dangerous.

It is, therefore, this friction, or what is
so termed here, which makes that which
appears easy in war difficult in reality.
As we proceed, we shall often meet with
this subject again, and it will hereafter
become plain tibat, besides experience and
a strong will, there are still many other
rare qualities of the mind required to
make a man a consummate general.

CHAPTER VIII.

CONCLUDING REMARKS, BOOK I.

TuosE things which as elements meet to-
gether in the atmosphere of war and
make it a resistant medium for every ac-
tivity, wo have designated under the

terms danger, bodily effort (exertion),
information, and friction. In their im-
pedient effects they may therefore bo
comprehended again in the colloetive no-

42

ON WAR.

[book I.

tion of a general friction. Now is there,
then, no kind of oil which is capable of
diminishing this friction ? Only one, and
that one is not always available at the
will of the Commander or his army. It
is the habituation of an army to war.

Habit gives strength to the body in
great exertion, to the mind in great
danger, to the judgment against first im-
pressions. By it a valuable circumspec-
tion is generally gained throughout
every rank, from the Hussar and Bifle-
man, up to the General of Division,
which facilitates the work of the chief
Commander.

As the human eye in a dark room di-
lates its pupil draws in the little light
that there is, partially distinguishes ob-
jects by degrees, and at last knows them
quite well, so it is in war with the expe-
rienced soldier, whilst the novice is only
met by pitch dark night.

Habituation to war no General can
give his army at once ; and the camps of
manoouvre (peace exercises) furnish but
a weak substitute for it, weak in compari-
son with real experience in war, but not
weak in relation to other armies in which
the training is limited to mere mechanical
exercises of routine. So to regulate the
exercises in peace time as to include
some of these causes of friction, that
the judgment, circumspection, even re-
solution of the separate leaders may
be brought into exercise, is of much-
greater consequence than those believe
who do not know the thing by experience.
It is of immense importance that the
soldier, high or low, whatever rank he
has, should not have to encounter for the
first time in war those things which.

when seen for the first time, set him in
astonishment and perplexity; if he has
only met with them one single time be-
fore, even by that he is half acquainted
with them. This relates even to bodily
fatigues. They should be practised less
to accustom Uie body than the mind
to them. In war the young soldier
is very apt to regard unusual fatigues as
the consequence of faults, mistakes, and
embarrassment in the conduct of the
whole, and to become distressed by that.
This would not happen if he had been
prepared for that beforehand by exercises
in peace.

Another less comprehensive but still
very important means of gaining habitua-
tion to war in time of peace is to invite
into the service officers of foreign armies,
who have had experience in war. Peace
seldom reigns over all Europe, and never
in all quarters of the world. A State
which has been long at peace should,
therefore, always seek to procure some
officers who have done good service at
the different scenes of warfare; or to
send there some of its own, that they
may get a lesson in war.

However small the number of officers
of this description may appear in propor-
tion to the mass, still their influence is
very sensibly felt. Their experience, the
bent of their genius, the stamp of their
character, influence their subordinates
and comrades ; and besides that, if they
cannot be placed in positions of superior
command, they may always be regarded
as men acquainted with the country, who
may be questioned on many special occa-
sions.

43

BOOK IL-ON THE THEOKY OF WAK.

CHAPTER I.

BRANCHES OF THE ART OF WAR.

War in ita literal meaning is fighting,
for fighting alone is the efficient prin-
ciple in the manifold activity which, in a
wide .sense, is called war. But fighting
is a trial of strength of the moral and
physical forces by means of the latter.
That the moral cannot be omitted is evi-
dent of itself, for the condition of the
mind has always the most decisive influ-
ence on the forces employed in war.

The necessity of fighting very soon led
men to special inventions to turn the ad-
vantage in it in their own favour ; in con-
sequence of that the mode of fighting
has undergone great alterations ; but in
whatever way it is conducted its concep-
tion remains unaltered, and fighting is
that which constitutes war.

The inventions have been from the
first weapons and equipments for the in-
dividual combatants. These have to be
provided, and the use of them learnt be-
iore the war begins. They are made
suitable to the nature of the fighting,
consequently are ruled by it ; but plainly
the activity engaged in these appliances
is a different thing from the fight itself ;
it is only the preparation for the combat,
not the conduct of the same. That
arming and equipping are not essential
to the conception of fighting is plain,

because mere wrestling is also fight-
ing. ,

Fighting has determined everything

appertaining to arms and equipment, and
these in turn modify the mode of fighting ;
there is, therefore, a reciprocity of action
between the two.

Nevertheless, the fight itself remains
still an entirely special activity, more
particidarly because it moves in an en-
tirely special element, namely, in the
element of danger.

If, then, there is anywhere a necessity
for drawing a line between two different
activities it is here ; and in order to see
clearly the importance of this idea, we
need only just to call to mind how often
eminent personal fitness in one field has
turned out nothing but the most useless
pedantry in the other.

It is also noways difficult to separate
in idea the one activity from the other,
if we look at the combatant forces fully
armed and equipped as a given means
the profitable use of which requires
nothing more than a knowledge of their
general results.

The art of war is, therefore, in its
proper sense, the art of making use of the
given means in fighting, and we cannot
give it a better name than the ^^ Conduct of

44

ON WAR,

[book I.

^flr." On the other hand, in a wider
sense certainly, all activities which have
their existence on account of war, there-
fore the whole creation of troops, that is
levying them, arming, equipping, and
exercising them, helong to the art of
war.

To make a sound theory it is most es-
sential to separate these two activities,
for it is easy to see that if every art of
war is to begin with the preparation of
military forces, and to pre-suppose forces
so organised as a primary condition for
conducting war, that theory will only be
applicable in the few cases to which the
force available happens to be exactly
suited. If, on the other hand, we wish
to have a theory which shall suit most
cases, and will not be wholly useless in
any case, it must be founded on those
means which are in most general use, and
in respect to these only on the actual re-
sults springing from them.

The conduct of war is, therefore, the
formation and conduct of the fighting.
If this fighting was a single act, there
would be no necessity for any further
subdivision ; but the fight is composed of
a greater or less number of single acts,
complete in themselves, which we call
combats, as we have shown in the first
chapter of the first book, and which form
new units. From this arises the totally
different activities, that of the formation
and conduct of these single combats in
themselves, and the combination of them
with one another, with a view to the
ultimate object of the war. The first is
called tactics y the other strategy.

This division into tactics and strategy
is now in almost general use ; and every
one knows tolerably well under which
head to place any single fact, without
knowing very distinctly the grounds on
which the classification is founded. But
when such divisions are blindly adhered
to in practice, they must have some deep
root. We have searched for this root, and
wo might say that it is just the UHnge of

the majority which has brought us to it.
On the other hand, we look upon the
arbitrary, unnatural definitions of these
conceptions sought to be established by
some writers, as not in accordance with
the general usage of the terms.

According to our classification there-
fore, tactics is the theory oj the ttse of mili-
tary forces in combat. Strategy is the theory
of the use of combats for the object of the war.

The way in which the conception of
a single or independent combat is more
closely determined, the conditions to
which this imit is attached, we shall only
be able to explain clearly when we con-
sider 4he combat; we must content our-
selves for the present with saying that
in relation to space, therefore in combats
taking place at the same time, the unit
reaches just as far as personal command
reaches ; but in regard to time, and
therefore in relation to combats which
follow each other in close succession it
reaches to the moment when the crisis,
which takes place in every combat, is en-
tirely passed.

That here doubtful cases may occur,
cases, for instance, in which several com-
bats may perhaps be regarded, also, as a
single one, will not overthrow the ground
of distinction we have adopted, for the
same is the case with all grounds of dis-
tinction, of real things which are differ-
entiated by a gradually diminishing
scale. There may, therefore, certainly
be acts of activity in war which, with-
out any alteration in the point of view,
may just as well be counted strategic as
tactical, for example, very extended posi-
tions resembling a chain of posts, the
prepai*ations for the passage of a river at
several points, &c.

Our classification reaches and covers
only the ttse of the military force. But
now there are in war a number of activi-
ties which are subservient to it, and
still are quite different from it ; some-
times closely allied, sometimes less near
in their affinity. All these activities

CBAF. I.]

BRANCHES OF THE ART OF WAR.

4.5

relate to the maintenance of the military
force. The same as ita creation and train-
ing precedes its use, so its m^teDance is
always by its side, a necessary condition.
But strictly viewed, all activities thus
connected with it are always to be re-
garded only as preparations for fighting,
they are certainly nothing more than
activities which are veiy] dose to the
action ; so that they run through the hos-
tile act alternate in importance with the
use of the forces. We have, therefore, a
right to exclude them as well as the other
preparatory activities from the art of war
in its restricted sense, from the conduct
of war properly so called ; and we are
obliged to do so if we would comply with
the first principle of all theory, the elimi-
nation of all heterogeneous elements.
Who would include in the real '' conduct
of war " the whole litany of subsistence
administration, because it is admitted to
stand in constant reciprocal action with
the use of the troops, but is something
essentially different from it ?

We have said, in the third chapter of
our first book, that as the fight or com-
bat is the only directly effective activity,
therefore the threads of all others, as
they end in it, are included in it. By this
we meant to say, that to all others an
object was thereby appointed which, in ac-
cordance with the laws peculiar to them-
selves they must seek to attain. Here we
must go a little closer into this subject.

The subjects which constitute the acti-
vities outside of the combat are of various
kinds.

The one part belongs, Id one respect,
to the combat itself, is identical with it;
whilst it serves in another respect for the
maintenance of the military force. The
other part belongs purely to the subsis-
tence, and has omy, in consequence of the
reciprocal action, a limited influence on
the combats by its results. The subjects
which, in one respect, belong to the
fighting itself, are ma/rchea^ camps^ and can^
timmenUf for ^ey suppose so many differ-

ent situations of troops, and where troops
are supposed, there the idea of the com-
bat must always be present.

The other subjects, which only belong
to the maintenance, are subeiateneCf care of
the sick, the supply and repair of arms and
equipment.

Marches are quite identical with the
use of the troops. March in the eomhaty
generally called evolution, is certainly
not properly the use of weapons ; but it
IS so completely and necessarily combined
with it, uiat it forms an integral part of
that which we call a combat. But the
march outside the combat is nothing but
the execution of a strategic measure.
By the strategic plan is settled, When,
where, and with what forces a battle is to
be delivered? — and to carry that into
execution the march is the only means.

The march outside of the combat is,
therefore, an instrument of strategy, but
not on that account exclusively a subject
of strategy, for as the armed force which
executes it constitutes a possible combat
at any moment, therefore its execution
stands also under tactical as weU as
strategic rules. If we prescribe to a
column its route on a particular side of a
river or of a branch of a mountain, then
that is a strategic measure, %t it contains
the intention of fighting on that particu-
lar side of the hiU or river in preference
to the other, in case a combat should be
necessary during the march.

But if a column, instead of following
the road through a valley, marches along
the parallel ridge of heights, or, for the
convenience of marching, divides itself
into several colunms, then these are
tactical arrangements, for they relate to
the manner in which we shall use the
troops in the anticipated combat.

The particular order of march is in
constant relation with readiness for com-
bat, is therefore tactical in its nature, for
it is nothing more than the first or pre-
liminary disposition for the battle which
may possibly take place.

46

ON TFAR.

[book n

As the march is the instrument by
which strategy apportions its active ele-
ments, the combats, but these last often
only appear by their results and not in
the details of their real course, it could not
fail to happen that in theory the instru-
ment has often been substituted for the
efficient principle. Thus we hear of a deci-
sive skilful march, allusion being thereby
made to those combat- combinations to
which these marches led. This substitu-
tion of ideas is too natural, and concise-
ness of expression too desirable to call
for alteration ; but still it is only a con-
densed chain of ideas in regard to which
we must never omit to bear in mind the
full meaning, if we would avoid falling
into error.

We fall into an error of this descrip-
tion if we attribute to strategical combi-
nations a force independent of tactical
results. Marches and manoeuvres are
combined, the object attained, and at the
same time not a word about combat from
which the conclusion is drawn that there
are means in war of conquering an enemy
without fighting. The prolific nature of
this error we cannot show until here-
after.

But although a march can be regarded
absolutely as an integral part of the com-
bat, still there are in it certain relations
which do not belong to the combat, and
therefore are neither tactical nor strategic.
To these belong all arrangements which
concern only the accommodation of the
troops, the construction of bridges, roads,
&c. These are only conditions ; under
many circimistances they are in very
close connection, and may almost identify
themselves with the troops, as in building
a bridge in presence of the enemy ; but
in themselves they are always extraneous
activities, the theory of which does not
form part of the theory of the conduct of
war.

Camps, by which we mean every dis-
position of troops in concentrated, there-
fore, in battle order, in contradistinction

to cantonments or quarters, are a state
of rest, therefore, of restoration ; but
they exB at the same time also the stra-
tegic appointment of a battle on the spot
chosen; and by the manner in which
they are taken up they contain the fun-
damental lines of the battle, a condition
from which everydefensive battle starts ;
they are, therefore, essential parts of
both strategy 8uid tactics.

Cantonments take the place of camps
for the better refreshment of the troops.
They are, therefore, like camps, strategic
subjects as regards position and extent;
tactical subjects as regards internal orga-
nisation, with a view to readiness to fight.

The occupation of camps and canton-
ments no doubt usually combines with
the refreshment of the troops another
object also, for example, the covering a
district of country, the holding a posi-
tion; but it can very well be only the
first. We remind our readers that stra-
tegy may follow a great diversity of
objects, for everything which appears an
advantage may be the object of a com-
bat, and the preservation of the instru-
ment with which war is made must
necessarily very often become the object
of its partial combinations.

If, therefore, in such a case strategy
ministers only to the maintenance of the
troops, we are not on that account some-
what out of the field of strategy, we are
still engaged with the use of the mili-
tary force, because every disposition of
that force upon any point whatever of the
theatre of war is such a use.

But if the maintenance of the troops
in camp or quarters caUs forth activities,
which are no employment of the armed
force, such as the construction of huts,
pitching of tents, subsistence and sanitary
services in camps or quarters, then such
belong neither to strategy nor tactics.

Even intrenchments, the site and pre-
paration of which are plainly part of the
order of battle, therefore tactical subjects,
do not belong to the theory of the con-

CUAP. I.]

BRANCHES OF THE ART OF WAR,

47

duct of war bo far as respects the execu-
tion of their eonftruction, the knowledge
and skill required for such work, being,
in point of fact, qualities inherent in the
nature of an organised army ; the theory
of the combat takes them for granted.

Amongst the subjects which belong to
the mere keeping up of an armed force,
because none of the parts are identified
with the combat, the victualling of the
troops themselves comes first, as it must
be done almost daily and for each indi-
vidual. Thus it is that it completely
permeates military action in the parts
constituting strategy — we say parts con-
stituting strategy, because during a
battle the subsistence of troops will
rarely have any influence in modifying
the plan, although the thing is conceiv-
able enough. The care for the subsist-
ence of the troops comes therefore into
reciprocal action chiefly with strategy,
and there is nothing more common than
for the leading strategic features of a cam-
paign and war to be traced out in con-
nection with a view to this supply. But
however frequent and however important
these views to supply may be, the subsist-
ence of the troops always remains a com-
pletely different activity from the use of
the troops, and the former has only an
influence on the latter by its results.

The other branches of administrative
activity which we have mentioned stand
much further apart from the use of
the troops. The care of sick and wounded,
highly important as it is, for the good of
an army, directly affects it only in a small
portion of the individuals composing it,
and, therefore, has only a weak and in-
direct influence upon the use of the rest.
The completing and replacing articles of
arms and equipment, except so far as by
the organism of the forces it constitutes
a continuous activity inherent in them —
takes place only periodically, and there-
fore seldom affects strategic plans.

"We must, however, here guard our-
selves against a mistake. In certain

cases these subjects may be really of de-
cisive importance. The distance of hos-
pitals and depots of munitions may very
easily be imagined as the sole cause of
very important strategic decisions. We
do not wish either to contest that point
or to throw it into the shade. But wo
are at present occupied not with the par-
ticular facts of a concrete case, but with
abstract theory ; and our assertion, there-
fore, is that such an influence is too rare
to give the theory of sanitary measures
and the supply of munitions and arms an
importance in the theory of the conduct
of war such as to make it worth while to
include in the theory of the conduct of
war the consideration of the different
ways and systems which the above theo-
ries may furnish, in the same way as is
certainly necessary in regard to victual-
ling troops.

If we have clearly understood the re-
sults of our reflections, then the activities
belonging to war divide themselves into
two principal classes, into such as aro
only ^^Preparations for War " and into the
** War itself,^' This division must there-
fore also be made in theory.

The knowledge and applications of skill
in the preparations for war are engaged in
the creation, discipline and maintenance
of all the military forces ; what general
names should be given to them we do
not enter into ; but we see that artillery,
fortification, elementary tactics, as they
are called, the whole organisation and
administration of the various armed
forces, and all such things are included.
But the theory of war itself occupies it-
self with the use of these prepared means
for the object of the war. It needs of
the first only the results, that is, the
knowledge of the principal properties of
the means taken in hand for use. This
we call ** The Art of War '* in a limited
sense, or "Theory of the Conduct of
War," or " Theory of the Employment
of Armed Forces," all of them denoting
for us the same thing.

48

OX WAR,

[book ir.

The present theory will therefore treat
the combat as the real contest, marches,
camps, and cantonments as circumstances
which are more or less identical with
it. The subsistence of the troops will
only come into consideration like otiier
given circumstances in respect of its results,
not as an activity belonging to the com-
bat.

The Art of War thus viewed in its
limited sense divides itself again into
tactics and strategy. The former occu-
pies itself with the form of the separate
combat, the latter with its use. Both
connect themselves with the circumstances
of marches, camps, cantonments only
through the combat, and these oircum-
stcmces are tactical or strategic according
as they relate to the form or to the signi-
fication of the battle.

No doubt there will be many readers
who will consider superfluous this careful
separation of two things lying so close to-
gether as tactics and strategy, because it
has no direct effect on the conduct itself
of war. We admit, certainly, that it
would be pedantry to look for direct
effects on the field of battle from a theo-
retical distinction.

But the first business of every theory is
to clear up conceptions and ideas which
have been jumbled together, and, we may
say, entangled and confused ; and only
when a right imderstanding is established
as to names and conceptions, can we hope
to progress with clearness and facility,
and be certain that author and reader wUl
always see things from the same point of
view. Tactics and strategy are two
activities mutually permeating each other
in time and space, at the same time
essentially different activities, the inner
laws and mutual relations of which can-
not be intelligible at all to the mind
until a clear conception of the nature of
each activity is established.

He to whom all this is nothing must
either repudiate all theoretical considera-
tion, or his imderstanding has not as yet
been pained by the confused and perplex-
ing ideas resting on no fixed point of
view, leading to no satisfactory result,
sometimes dull, sometimes fantastic, some-
times floating in vague generalities, which
we are often obliged to hear and read on
the conduct of war, owing to the spirit
of scientiflc investigation having hitherto
been little directed to these subjects.

CHAPTER 11.

ON THE THEORY OF WAR.

1. — The first eoneeption of the ^^ Art of
War " was merely the preparation of the
Armed Forces,

FoRHEBLY by the term " Art of War,'* or
** Science of War," nothing was under-
stood but the totality of those branches of
knowledge and those appliances of skill
occupied with material things. The

pattern and preparation and the nK>de of
using arms, the construction of fortifica-
tions and entrenchments, the organism of
an army, and the mechanism of its move-
ments, were the subjects of these branches
of knowledge and skill above referred to,
and the end and aim of them all was the
establishment of an armed force fit for
use in war. All this concerned merely

OttAP. n.]

ON TEE THEORY OF WAR.

49

things belonging to the material world
and a one-sided actiyity only ; and it
was in fact nothing but an activity ad-
vancing by gradations from the lower
occupations to a finer kind of mechanical
art. The relation of all this to war itself
was very much the same as the relation
of the art of the sword cutler to the art
of using the Bword. The employment in
the moment of danger and in a state of
constant reciprocal action of the parti-
cular energies of mind and spirit in the
direction proposed to them was not yet
even mooted.

2, — True war first appears tn the Art of

Sieges.

In the art of sieges we first perceive a
certain degree of guidance of the combat,
something of the action of the intellectual
faculties upon the material forces placed
under their control, but generally only
so far that it very soon embodied itself
again in new material forms, such as
approaches, trenches, counter approaches,
batteries, etc., and every step which this
action of the higher faculties took was
marked by some such result ; it was only
the thread that was required on which to
string these material inventions in order.
As the intellect can hardly manifest
itself in this kind of wair, except in such
things, so therefore nearly all that was
necessary was done in that way.

3. — Then tactics tried to find its way in

that direction.

Afterwards, tactics attempted to give
to the mechanism of its joints the charac-
ter of a general disposition, built upon the
peculiar properties of the instrument,
which character leads indeed to the
battle-field, but instead of leading to the
free activity of mind, leads to an army
made like an automaton by its rigid for-
mations and orders of battle, which,
moveable only by the word of command,

is intended to unwind its activities like a
piece of clockwork.

4. — The real conduct of War only made its
appearance incidentally and incognito.

The conduct of war properly so called,
that is, a use of the prepared means
adapted to the most special requirements,
was not considered as any suitable sub-
ject for theory, but one which should be
left to natural talents alone. By degrees,
as war passed from the hand to hand en-
counters of the middle ages into a more
regular and eystematic form, etray reflec-
tions on this point also forced themselves
into men's minds, but they mostly ap-
peared only incidentally in memoirs and
narratives, and in a certain measure in-
cognito.

5. — Reflections on Military Events brought
about the want of a Theory.

As contemplation on war continually
increased, and its history every day as-
sumed more of a critical character, the ur-
gent want appeared of the support of fixed
maxims and rules, in order that in the con-
troversies naturally arising about mili-
tary events, the war of opinions might
be brought to some one point. This whirl
of opinions, which neither revolved on
any central pivot, nor according to any
appreciable laws, could not but be very
distasteful to people's minds.

6. — Endeavours to establish a positive
Theory.

There arose, therefore, an endeavour
to establish maxims, rules, and even sys-
tems for the conduct of war. By this
the attainment of a positive object was
proposed, without taking into view the
endless difficulties which the conduct of
war presents in that respect. The con-
duct of war, as we have shown, has no
definite limits in almost any direction,

50

ON WAR.

[book n.

while every system has the ciTcnmscribing
nature of a synthesis, from which results
an irreconcileable oppositionbetween such
a theory and practice.

7. — Limitaiion to Material Objects,

"Writers on theory felt the difficulty of
the subject soon enough, and thought
themselves entitled to get rid of it by
directing their maxims and systems only
upon material things and a one-sided ac-
tivity. Their aim was to reach results,
as in the science for the preparation for
war, entirely certain and positive, and
therefore only to take into consideration
that which could be made matter of cal*
eulation.

%.^ Superiority of Numbers,

The superiority in niunbers being a
material condition, it was chosen from
amongst all the factors required to pro-
duce victory, because it could be brought
imder mathematical laws through combi-
nations of time and space. It was thought
possible to leave out of sight all other
circumstances, by supposing them to be
equal on each side, and therefore to neu-
tralise one another. This would have
been very well if it had been done to
gain a preliminary knowledge of this one
factor, according to its relations ; but to
make it a rule for ever to consider supe-
riority of numbers as the sole law : to
see the whole secret of the art of war in
the formula — in a certain timef at a cer-
tain point, to bring up superior masses —
was a restriction overruled by the force
of realities.

9. — Victualling of Troops,

By one theoretical school an attempt
was made to systematize another material
element also, by making the Eubsistence
of troops, according to a previously esta-
blished organism of the army, the su-
preme legislator in the higher conduct
of war. In this way, certainly, they

arrived at definite figures, but at fig^ores
which rested on a number of arbitrary
calculations, and which, therefore, could
not stand the test of practical applica-
tion.

10. — Base.

An ingenious author tried to concen-
trate in a single conception, that of a Base^
a whole host of objects, amongst which
sundry relations even with immaterial
forces found their way in as well. The list
comprised the subsistence of the troops,
the keeping them complete in numbers and
equipment, the security of communica-
tions with the home country, lastly, the
security of retreat in case it became ne-
cessary, and, first of all, he proposed to
substitute this conception of a base
for all these things ; then for the
base itself to substitute its own length
(extent) ; and, last of all, for that to sub-
stitute the angle formed by the army with
this base : all this was done merely to
obtain a pure geometrical result utterly
useless. This last is, in fact, unavoid-
able, if we reflect that none of these sub-
stitutions could be made without violating
truth and leaving out some of the things
contained in the original conception.
The idea of a base is a real necessity for
strategy, and to have conceived it is meri-
torious ; but to make such a use of it as
wo have depicted is completely inadmis-
sible, and could not but lead to partial
conclusions which have forced these
theorists into a direction opposed to
common sense, namely, to a belief in the
decisive effect of the enveloping form of
attack.

1 1 . — Interior Lines,

As a reaction against this false direc-
tion, another geometrical principle, that
of the so-called interior lines, was then
elevated to the throne. Although this
principle rests on a sound foundation, on
the truth that the combat is the only
efiPectual means in war ; still, it is just on

CHAP, n.]

ON THE TSEORY OF WAR.

51

aooonnt of its purely geometrical nature
nothing but another case of one-sided
theory which can nerer gain ascendancy
in the real world.

12. — All thete attempts are exceptionahle.

All these attempts at theory are only
in their analytical part to be con-
sidered as progress in the province of
truth ; but in their synthetical part, in
their precepts and rules, as quite unser-
viceable.

They strive after determinate quanti-
ties, whilst in war all is undetermined,
and the calculation has always to be
made with purely varying quantities.

They point the attention only upon
material forces, while the whole mili-
tary action is penetrated throughout by
intelligent forces and their effects.

They only pay regard to activity on one
side, whilst war is a constant state of
reciprocal action, the effects of which are
mutual.

14. — The difficulty of Theory as soon ae moral
qMantities eome into consideration.

Every theory becomes infinitely more
difficult £rom the moment that it touches
on the province of moral quantities.
Architecture and painting know quite
well what they are about as long as they
have only to do with matter ; there is no
dispute about mechanical or optical con-
struction. But as soon as the moral ac-
tivities begin their work, as soon as
moral impressions and feelings are pro-
duced, the whole set of rules dissolves
into vague ideas.

The science of medicine is chiefly en-
gaged with bodily phenomena only ; its
business is with ^e animal organism
which, liable to perpetual change, is
never exactly the same for two moments.
This makes its office very difficult, and
places the judgment of the physician
above his science ; but how much more
difficult the case is if a moral effect is
added, and how much higher we place
the physician of the mind ?

13. — As a rule they exclude genius.

All that was not attainable by such
miserable philosophy, the offspring of
partial views, lay outside the precincts
of science— was the field of genius, which
raises itself above rules.

Pity the warrior who is contented to
crawl about in this beggardom of rules,
which are too bad for genius, over which
it can set itself superior, over which it
can perchance make merry ! What genius
does must be just the best of all rules,
and theory cannot do better than to show
how and why it is so.

Pity the theory which sets itself in op-
position to the mind ! It cannot repair
this contradiction by any humility, and
the humbler it is so much the sooner will
ridicule and contempt drive it out of real
life.

15. — The moral quantities must not he
excluded in war.

But now the activity in war is never
directed solely against matter, it is always
at the same time directed against the in-
telligent force which g^ves life to this
matter, and to separate the two from each
other is impossible.

But the intelligent forces are only
visible to the inner eye, and this is dif-
ferent in each person, and often different
in the same person at different times.

As danger is the general element in
which everything moves in war, it is also
chiefly by courage, the feeling of one's
own power that the judgment is differ-
ently influenced. It is to a certain ex-
tent the crystalline lens through which all
appearances pass before reaching the
understanding.

And yet we cannot doubt that these

52

ON WAR.

[book n«

things acquire a certain objectiye value
simply tbirougli experience.

Every one knows the moral effect of a
surprise, of an attack in flank or rear.
Every one thinks less of the enemy's
courage as soon as he turns his back,
and ventures much more in pursuit
than when pursued. Every one judges
of the enemy's general by his reputed
talents, by lus age and experience, and
shapes his course accordingly. Every
one casts a scrutinising glance at the
spirit and feeling of his own and the
enemy's troops. All these and similar
effects in the province of the moral na«
ture of man have established themselves
by experience, are perpetually recurring,
and, therefore, warrant our reckoning
them as real quantities of their kind.
And what could we do with any theory
which should leave them out of conside-
ration?

But, certainly, experience is an indis-
pensable title for these truths. With
psychological and philosophical sophis-
tries, no theory, no General should
meddle.

16. — Prineipal difficulty of a Theory for the
Conduct of War.

In order to comprehend clearly the
difficulty of the proposition which is con-
tained in a theory for the conduct of war,
and thence to deduce the necessary cha-
racteristics of such a theory, we must
take a closer view of the chief particulars
which make up the nature of activity Tn
war.

17. — First Speciality. — Moral Forces and

their Effects.

(Hostile Feeling. J

The first of these specialities consists
in the moral forces and effects.

The combat is, in its origin, the ex-
pression of hostile feeling ; but in our
great combats, which we call wars, tlie

hostile feeling frequently resolves itself
into merely a hostile view ; and there is
usually no innate hostile feeling residing
in individual against individual. Never-
theless, the combat never passes off with-
out such feelings being brought into
activity. National hatred, which is
seldom wanting in our wars, is a sub-
stitute for personal hostility in the breast
of individual opposed to individuaL
But where this also is wanting, and at
first no animosity of feeling subsisted, a
hostile feeling is kindled by the combat
itself; for an act of violence which any
one commits upon us by order of his
superior, will excite in us a desire to
retaliate and be revenged on him, sooner
than on the superior power at whose com-
mand the act was done. This is human,
or animal if we will ; still it is so. — We
are very apt to regard the combat in
theory as an abstract trial of strength,
without any participation on the part of
the feelings, and that is one of the
thousand errors which theorists delibe-
rately commit, because they do not see
its consequences.

Besides that excitation of feelings
naturally arising &om the combat itself,
there are others also which do not essen-
tially belong to it, but which, on account
of their relationship, easily unite with it —
ambition, love of power, enthusiasm of
every kind, &c., &c.

18. — The impressions of danger.
{Courage).

Finally the combat begets the ele-
ment of danger, in which all the activi-
ties of war must live and move, like
the bird in the air, or the fish in the
water. But the influences of danger all
pass into the feelings, either directly —
that is, instinctively— or through the
medium of the understanding. The
effect in the first case would be a desire
to escape from the danger, and, if that
cannot be done, fright and anxiety. If

•CHAP, n.]

ON TEE TREORY OF WAR,

53

this effect does not take place, then it is
courttgey which is a counterpoise to that
instinct. Courage is, however, by no
means an act of the understanding, but
likewise a feeling, like fear; the latter
looks to the physical preservation, courage
to the moral preservation. Courage,
then, is a nobler instinct. But because
it is so, it will not allow itseK to be used
as a lifeless instrument, which produces
its effects exactly according to prescribed
measure. Courage, is, therefore, no
mere counterpoise to danger in order to
neutralise the latter in its effects, but a
peculiar power in itself.

19. — Extent of the influmee of danger.

But to estimate exactly the influence
of danger upon the principal actors in
war, we must not limit its sphere to the
physical danger of the moment. It domi-
nates over the actor, not only by threat-
ening him, but also by threatening all
entrusted to him, not only at the moment
in which it is actually present, but also
through the imagination at all other
moments, which have a connection with
the present ; lastly, not only directly by
itself, but also indirectly, by the respon-
sibility which makes it bear with tenfold
weight on the mind of the chief actor.
Who could advise, or resolve upon a great
battle, without feeling his mind more or
less wrought up or perplexed by the dan-
ger and responsibility which such a great
act of decision carries in itself ! We may
say that action in war, in so far as it is
real action, not a mere condition, is never
out of the sphere of danger.

20. — Other powers of feeling,

11 we look upon these affections, which
are excited by hostility and danger as
peculiarly belonging to war, we do not,
therefore, exclude from it all others
accompanying man in his life's journey.
They will also find room here frequently

enough. Certainly, we may say that
many a petty action of the passions is
silenced in this serious business of life;
but that holds good only in respect to
those acting in a lower sphere; who,
hurried on from one state of danger and
exertion to another, lose sight of the rest
of the things of liife, become unused to
deceit, because it is of no avail with
death ; and so attain to that soldierly ,
simplicity of character which has always
been the best representative of the mili-
tary profession. In higher regions it is
otherwise ; for the higher a man's rank,
the more he must look around him : then
arise interests on every side, and a mani-
fold activity of the passions of good and
bad. Envy and generosity, pride and
humility, fierceness and tenderness, all
may appear as active powers in this
great drama.

21. — Peeuliaritg of mind.

The peculiar characteristics of mind in
the chief actor have, as well as those of
the feelings, a high importance. From
an imaginative, flighty, inexperienced
head» and from, a cabn, sagacious under-
standing, different things are to be
expected.

22. — From the diversity in mental indi^
vidttalitieSf arisee the diversity of ways
leading to the aim.

It is this great diversity in mental
individuality, the influence of which is to
be supposed as chiefly felt in the higher
ranks, because it increases upwards,
which chiefly produces the diversity of
ways leading to the end, noticed by us in
the first book, and which g^ves over to
the play of probabilities and chance, such
an unequal share in events.

23. — Second peculiarity, living reaction.

The second peculiarity in war is the
living reaction, and the reciprocal action

54

ON WAR.

[book n.

resulting therefrom. We do not here
speak of the difficulty of. estimating that
reaction, for that is included in the diffi-
culty before-mentioned, of treating the
moral powers as quantities ; but of this,
that reciprocal action, by its nature,
opposes anything like a regular plan.
The effect which any measure produces
upon the enemy is the most distinct
of all the data which action affords ; but
every theory must keep to classes (or
groups) of phenomena, and can never
take up the really individual case in
itself: that must everywhere be left to
judgment and talent. It is, therefore,
natural that in a business such as war,
which in its plan — ^built upon general
circumstances — is so often thwarted by
unexpected and singular accidents, more
must generally be left to talent ; and less
use can be made of a theoretical guide
than in any other.

24. — Third peculiarity — unetrtainty of all

data.

Lastly, the great uncertainty of all
data in war is a peculiar difficulty, be-
cause all action must, to a certain extent,
be planned in a mere twilight, which in
addition not unfrequently— like the effect
of a fog or moonshine — g^ves to things
exaggerated dimensions and an un-
natural appearance.

What this feeble light leaves indistinct
to the sight, talent must discover, or must
be left to chance. It is therefore again
talent, or the favour of fortune, on which
reliance must be placed, for want of
objective knowledge.

25. — Positive theory is impossible.

Witli materials of this kind we can
only say to ourselves, that it is a sheer
impossibility to construct for the art of
war a theory which, like a scaffolding,
shall ensure to the chief actor an external
support on all sides. In all those cases

in which he is thrown upon his talent he
would find himself away from this scaf-
folding of theory, and in opposition to it,
and, however many-sided it might be
framed, the same result would ensue of
which we spoke when we said that talent
and genius act beyond the law, and theory
is in opposition to reality.

26. — Means left by which a theory ts pos-

sible,

{27ie difficulties are not everywhere equally

great).

Two means present themselves of get-
ting out of this difficulty. In the first
place, what we have said of the nature
of military action in general, does not
apply in the same manner to the action
of every one, whatever may be his stand-
ing. In the lower ranks the spirit of
self-sacrifice is called more into request,
but the difficulties which the understand-
ing and judgment meet with are infinitely
less. The field of occurrences is more
confined. Ends and means are fewer in
number. Data more distinct; mostly
also contained in the actually visible.
But the higher we ascend the more the
difficulties increase ; until, in the com-
mander-in-chief, they reach their climax:
so that with him almost everything must
be left to genius.

Further, according to a division of the
subject in agreement toith its naUtre^ the
difficulties are not everywhere the same,
but diminish the more results manifest
themselves in the material world; and
increase the more they pass into the
moral, and become motives which influ-
ence the will. Therefore it is easier to
determine, by theoretical rules, the order
and conduct of a battle, than the use to
be made of the battle itself. Yonder
physical weapons clash with each other,
and although mind is not wanting therein,
matter must have its rights. But in the
effects to be produced by battles when
the material results become motives, we

CHAP, n.]

ON THE THEORY OF WAR.

55

have only to do with the moral nature.
In a word, it is easier to make a theory
for taetict than for strategy,

27. — Theory mtut he of the nature ofobaerva^
tion, not of doctrine.

The second opening for the possibility
of a theory lies in the point of view that
it does not necessarily require to be a
direction for action. As a general rule,
whenever an activity is for the most part
occupied with the same objects over and
over again, with the same ends and
means, although there may be trifling
alterations, and a corresponding number
of varieties of combination, such things
are capable of becoming a subject of
Btudy for the reasoning faculties. But
Buch study is just the most essential part
of every theory, and has a peculiar title to
that name. It is an analytical investiga-
tion of the subject that leads to an
exact knowledge ; and if brought to bear
on the results of experience, which in our
ease would be military history, to a
thorough familiarity with it The nearer
theory attains the latter object so much the
more it passes over from the objective
form of Knowledge into the subjective
one of skill in action ; and so much the
more, therefore, it will prove itself effec-
tive when circumstances allow of no other
decision but that of personal talents ; it
will show its effects in that talent itself.
If theory investigates the subjects which
constitute war ; if it separates more dis-
tinctly that which at first sight seems
amalgamated; if it explains fully the
properties of the means ; if it shows their
probable effects ; if it makes evident the
nature of objects ; if it brings to bear all
over the field of war the light of essen-
tially critical investigation, — then it has
fulfilled the chief duties of its province.
It becomes, then, a guide to him who
wishes to make himself acquainted with
war from books ; it lights up the whole
road for him, feicilitates his progress.

educates his judgment^ and shields him
frtim error.

If a man of expertness spends half his
life in the endeavour to clear up an ob-
scure subject thoroughly, he will pro-
bably know more about it than a person
who seeks to master it in a short time.
Theory is instituted that each person
in succession may not have to go through
the same labour of clearing the ground
and toiling through it, but may find the
thing in order, and light admitted on it.
It should educate the mind of the future
leader in war, or rather guide him in his
self-instruction, but not accompany him
to the field of battle : just as a sensible
tutor forms and enlightens the opening
mind of a youth without, therefore, keep-
ing him in leading strings all through
his life.

If maxims and rules result of them-
selves from the considerations which
theory institutes, if the truth concretes
itself in that form of crystal, then theory
will not oppose this natural law of the
mind ; it will rather, if the arch ends in
such a keystone, bring it prominently
out; but it does this only in order to
satisfy the philosophical law of reason,
in order to show distinctly the point to
which the lines all converge, not in order
to form out of it an algebraical formula
for the battle-field : for even these maxims
and rules also are more to determine in
the reflecting mind the leading outline of
its habitual movements, than to serve as
landmarks indicating to it the way in the
act of execution.

28. — By this point of view Theory hecomea
possible, and ceases to be in contradiction
to practice.

Taking this point of view, there is a
possibility afforded of a satisfactory, that
is, of a useful theory of the conduct of
war, never coming into opposition with
the reality, and it will only depend on
rational treatment to bring it so far into

56

ON WAR.

[book n.

harmony with action, that between theory
and practice there shall no longer be that
absurd difference which an unreasonable
theory, in defiance of common sense, has
often produced, but which, just as often,
narrow-mindedness and ignorance have
used as a pretext for giving way to their
natural incapacity.

29. — Theory^ therefore^ considers the nature
of ends and means — Ends and means in
Tactics,

Theory has, therefore, to consider the
nature of the means and ends.

In tactics the means are the disciplined
armed forces which are to carry on the
contest. The object is victory. The pre-
cise definition of this conception can be
better explained hereafter in the conside-
ration of the combat. Here we content
ourselves by denoting the retirement of
the enemy from the field of battle as the
sign of victory. By means of this victory
strategy gains the object for which it ap-
pointed the combat, and which constitutes
its special signification. This significa-
tion has certainly some influence on the
nature of the victory. A victory which
is intended to weaken the enemy's armed
forces is a different thing to one which
is designed only to put us in possession
of a position. The signification of a
combat may therefore, have a sensible
influence on the prepcLration and conduct
of it, consequently will be also a subject
of consideration in tactics.

80. — Circumstances which always attend the
application of the Means,

As there are certain circumstances
which attend the combat throughout, and
have more or less influence upon its re-
sult, therefore these must be taken into
consideration in the application of the
armed forces.

Those circumstances are the locality of
the combat (ground), the time of day,
and the weather.

31.— Locality.

The locality, which we prefer leaving
for solution, under the head of ' Country
and Ground,' might, strictly speaking,
be without any influence at all if the
combat took place on a completely level
and uncultivated plain.

In a country of steppes such a case
may occur, but in the cultivated coun-
tries of Europe it is almost an imaginary
idea. Therefore, a combat between
civilised nations, in which country and
ground have no influence, is hardly con-
ceivable.

32.— TVmtf of Day.

The time of day influences the combat
by the difference between day and night ;
but the influence naturally extends further
than just to the limits of these divisions, as
every combat has a certain duration, and
great battles last for several hours. In
the preparations for a great battle, it
makes an essential difference whether
it begins in the morning or the evening.
At the same time certainly many battles
may be fought, in which the question of
the time of day is quite immaterial, and
in the generality of cases its influence is
only trifling.

Z3.— Weather.

»

Still more rarely has the weather any
decisive influence, and it is mostly only
by fogs that it plays a part,

34. — Mid and Means in Strategy.

Strategy has in the first instance only
the victory, that is, the tactical result, as
a means to its object, and, ultimatelyi
those things which lead directly to peace.
The application of its means to this ob-
ject is at the same time attended by cir-
cumstances which have an influence
thereon more or less*

CHAP. n.J

ON TEE THEORY OF WAR,

67

35. — Cireumstanees ichieh aiiend the appli-
cation of the Means of Strategy.

These circumstances are country and
g^und; the former including the terri-
tory and inhabitants of the whole theatre
of war ; next the time of the day and the
time of the year as well ; lastly, the
weather, particularly any unusual state
of the same, severe frost, &c.

86. — Theeeform new Means,

By bringing these things into combi-
nation with the results of a combat,
strategy gives this result, and, therefore,
the combat — a special signification, places
before it a particular object. But when
this object is not that which leads
directly to peace, therefore a subordinate
one, it is only to be looked upon as a
means ; and, therefore, in strategy we
may look upon the results of combats
or victories, in all their different signifi-
cations, as means. The conquest of a
position is such a result of a combat ap-
plied to ground. But not only are the
different combats with special objects to
be considered as means, but also every
higher aim which we may have in view
in the combination of battles directed on
a common object, is to be regarded as a
means. A winter campaign is a combi-
nation of this kind applied to the season.

There remain, therefore, as objects, only
those things which may be supposed
as leading directly to peace. Theory in-
vestigates all these ends and means ac-
cording to the nature of their effects and
their mutual relations.

87. — Strategy deduces only from experience
the Ends and Means to he examined.

The first question is, How does strategy
arrive at a complete list of these things ?
If there is to be a philosophical inquiry
leading to an absolute resiQt, it would
become entangled in all those difficultieB

which the logical necessity of the con-
duct of war and its theory exclude. It,
therefore, turns to experience, and directs
its attention on those combinations which
military history can furnish. In this
manner, no doubt, nothing more than a
limited theory can be obtained, which
only suits circumstances such as are pre-
sented in history. But this incomplete-
ness is unavoidable; because in any case
theory must either have deduqed from,
or have compared with, history, what
it advances with respect to things. Be-
isides this incompleteness in every case is
more theoretical than real.

One great advantage of this method is
that theory cannot lose itself in abstruse
disquisitions, subtleties, and chimeras,
but must always remain practical.

88. — ITow far the analysis of the means
should be carried.

Another question is, How far theory
should go in its analysis of the means ?
Evidendy only so far as the elements in
a separate form present themselves for
consideration in practice. The range and
effect of different weapons is very impor-
tant to tactics ; their construction, al*
though these effects result from it, is a
matter of indifference ; for the conduct of
war is not making powder and cannon
out of a given quantity of charcoal, sul-
phur, and saltpetre, of copper and tin :
the given quantities for the conduct
of war are arms in a finished state
and their effects. Strategy makes
use of plans without troubling itself
about triangulations ; it does not en-
quire how the country is subdivided
into departments and provinces, and how
the people are educated and governed in
order to attain the best military results ;
but it takes things as it finds them in the
community of European states, and ob-
serves where very different conditions
have a notable influence on war.

68

ON WAR,

[book n.

89. — Great aimplifieation of the knowledge

required.

That in this manner the number of
Bubjecta for theory is much 8impli£ed,
and the knowledge requisite for the eon-
duct of war much reduQed, is easy to per-
ceive. The very great mass of knowledge
and appliances of skill which minister to
the action of war in general, and which
are necessary before an army fully
equipped can take the field, unite in a
few great results before they are able to
reach, in actual war, the final goal of their
activity ; just as the streams of a country
unite themselves in rivers before they
fall into the sea. Only those activities
emptying themselves directly into the sea
of war, have to be studied by him who is
to conduct its operations.

40. — Tliie explains the rapid growth of
great generah^ and %ohy a general ie not a
man of learning.

This result of our considerations is in
fact so necessary, that any other would
have made us distrustful of their accu-
racy. Only thus is explained how so
often men have made their appearance
with great success in war, and indeed in
the higher ranks, even in supreme com- .
mand, whose pursuits had been pre-
viously of a totally different nature;
indeed how, as a rule, the most distin-
guished generals have never risen from
the very learned, or really erudite glass
of officers, but have been mostly men
who, from the circumstances of their posi-
tion, could not have attained to any great
amount of knowledge. On that account
those who have considered it necessary,
or even beneficial to commence the educa-
tion of a future general by instruction in
all details, have always been ridiculed as
absurd pedants. It would be easy to show
the injurious tendency of such a course,
because the human mind is trained by
the knowledge imparted to it, and the

direction given to its ideas. Only what
is great can make it great ; the little can
only make it little, if the mind itself does
not reject it as something repugnant.

41. — Former contradictions.

Because this simplicity of knowledge
requisite in war was not attended to, but
that knowledge was always jumbled up
with the whole impedimenta of subordi-
nate sciences and arts; therefore the
palpable opposition to the events of real
life which resulted, could not be solved
otherwise than by ascribing it all to
genius, which requires no theoiy, and
for which no theory could be prescribed.

42. — On this account all use of knowledge
was denied^ and everything ascribed to
natural talents.

People with whom common sense had
the upper hand, felt sensible of the im-
mense distance remaining to be filled up
between a genius of the highest order and
a learned pedant ; and they became free*
thinkers in a manner, rejected all belief
in theory, and affirmed the conduct of war
to be a natural function of man, which
he performs more or less well according
as he has brought with him into the
world more or less talent in that direction.
It cannot be denied that these were
nearer to the truth than those who placed
a value on false knowledge : at the same
time it may be soon seen that such a view
is nothing but an exaggeration. No ac-
tivity of the human understanding ia
possible without a certain stock of ideas ;
but these are, for the greater part at least,
not innate but acquired, and constitute
his knowledge. The only question there*
fore is, of what kind should these ideas
be ; and we think we have answered it if
we say that they should be directed on
those things which man has directly to
deal with in war.

CHAP, n.]

ON THE THEORY OF WAR.

59

43. — The knowledge must h$ made suitable

to the position.

Inside this field itself of military ac-
tivity, the knowledge required must be
different according to the station of the
Command er. It will be directed on smaller
and more circumscribed objects if he
holds an inferior, upon greater and more
comprehensive ones if he holds a higher
situation. There are Field Marshals who
at the head of a cavalry regiment would
not have shone, and vice versa.

44. — 2^ Knowledge in war is very simple,
hit not, at the same time, very easy.

But although the knowledge in war
is simple, that is to say directed to so
few subjects, and taking up those only
in their final results, the art of execution
is not, at the same time, easy on that ac-
count. Of the difficulties to which activity
in war is subj ect generally, we have already
spoken in &e first book ; we here omit
those things which can only be overcome
by courage, and maintain that also
the activity of mind properly called is
only simple and easy in inferior stations,
but increases in difficulty with increase
of rank, and in the highest position,
in that of Commander-in-chief, is to
be reckoned among the most difficidt
which there is for the human mind.

45. — Of the nature of this knowledge.

The Commander of an army neither
requires to be a learned explorer of his-
tory nor a publicist, but he must be well
versed in the higher affairs of State ; he
must know and be able to judge correctly
of traditional tendencies, interests at
stake, the immediate questions at issue,
and the characters of leading persons ; he
need not be a close observer of men, a
sharp dissector of human character, but
he must know the character, the feelings,
the habits, the peculiar faults and incli-
nations of those whom he is to command.

He need not understand anything about
the make of a carriage, or the harness of a
Battery horse, but he must know how
to calculate exactly the march of a column,
under different circumstances, according
to the time it requires. These are things
the knowledge of which cannot be forced
out by an apparatus of scientific formula
and machinery : they are only to be gained
by the exercise of an accurate judgment
in the observation of things and of men,
aided by a special talent for the appre-
hension of both.

The necessary knowledge for a high
position in military action is therefore
distinguished by this, that, by observa-
tion, therefore by study and reflection,
it is only to be attained, through a special
talent, which as an intellectual instinct
understands how to extract from the
phenomena of life only the essence or
spirit, as bees do the honey from the
flowers ; and that it is also to be gained
by experience of life as well as by study
and reflection. Life will never bring
forth a Newton or an Euler by its rich
teachings, but it may bring forth great
calculators in war, such as Cond6 or
Frederick.

It is, therefore, not necessary that, in
order to vindicate the intellectual dignity
of military activity, we should resort to
untruth and silly pedantry. There never
has been a great and distinguished com-
mander of a contracted mind ; but very
numerous are the instajices of men who,
after serving with the greatest distinc-
tion in inferior positions, remained below
mediocrity in the highest, from insuffi-
ciency of intellectual capacity. That
even amongst those holding the post of
Commanders-in-Chief there may be a
difference according to the degree of
their plenitude of power is a matter of
course.

46. — Science must become Art.

Now we have yet to consider one con-
dition which is more necessary for the

60

Oir WAR.

[book n.

knowledge of the conduct of war than for
anj other, which is, that it must pass
completely into the mind and almost
completely cease to be something objec-
tive. In almost all other arts and occu-
pations of life the active agent can make
use of truths which he has only learnt
once, and in the spirit and sense of which
he no longer lives, and which he extracts
from dusty books. Even truths which
he has in hand and uses daily may con-
tinue something external to himself. If
the architect takes up a pen to settle the
strength of a pier by a complicated cal-
culation, the truth found as a result is no
emanation from his own mind. He had
£b:st to find the data with labour, and
then to submit these to an operation of
the mind, the rule for which he did not
discover, the necessity of which he is per-
haps at the moment only partly conscious
of, but which he applies, for the most part,
as if by mechanical dexterity. But it is
never so in war. The moral reaction,
the ever-changeful form of things, makes
it necessary for the chief actor to carry
in himself the whole mental apparatus
of his knowledge, that anywhere and at
every pulse-beat he may be capable of
giving the requisite decision from him-
self. Knowledge must, by this complete *
assimilation with his own mind and life,
be converted into real power. This is
the reason why everything seems so easy
with men distinguished in war, and why

everything is ascribed to natural talent.
"We say natural talent, in order thereby
to distinguish it from that which is
formed and matured by observation and
study.

We think that by these reflections we
have explained the problem of a theory
of the conduct of war, and pointed out
the way to its solution.

Of the two fields into which we have
divided the conduct of war, tactics and
strategy, the theory of the latter contains
unquestionably, as before observed, the
greatest difficulties, because the first is
almost limited to a circumscribed field of
objects, but the latter in the direction of
objects leading directly to peace, opens to
itself an unlimited field of possibilitiea.
But as for the most part the Commander-
in-Chief only has to keep these objects
steadily in view, so therefore, the part of
strategy in which he moves is also that
which is particularly subject to this diffi-
culty.

Theory, therefore, especially where
it comprehends the highest services,
will stop much aodner in strategy than
in tactics at the simple consideration
of things, and content itself to assist
the Commander to that insight into
things which, blended with his whole
thought, makes his course easier and
surer, never forces him into opposition
with himself in order to obey an objec-
tive truth.

cnAF. m.]

ART OR SCIENCE OF WAR.

61

CHAPTER III.

AET OE SCIENCE OF WAR-

1. — Usage »t%tt unsettled.

(Power and Knowledge, Seience when mere
knowing; Art, when doing i$ the ohjeet,)

The choice between these terms seems
to be still undecided, and no one seems
to know rightly on what grounds it
should be decided, and yet the thing
is simple. We have already said else-
where that knowing is something dif-
ferent from doing. The two are so
different that they should not easily be
mistaken the one for the other. The
doing cannot properly stand in any book,
and therefore, also. Art should never be
the title of a book. But because we
have once accustomed ourselves to com-
bine in conception, under the name of
theory of Art, or simply Art, the branches
of knowledge (which may be separately
pure sciences), necessary for the practice
of an art : therefore, it is consistent to
continue this ground of distinction, and
to call eyerythmg Art when the object is
to carry out the doing (being able), as
for example, Art of building ; Science,
when merely knowledge is the object;
as Science of Mathematics, of Astronomy.
That in every art certain complete sciences
may be included is intelligible of itself,
and should not perplex us. But stUl it
is worth observing that there is also no
science without a mixture of art. In
mathematics, for instance, the use of
figures and of algebra is an art, but that
is only one amongst many instances.
The reason is, that however plain and
palpable the difference is between know-
ledge and power in the composite results
of human knowledge, yet it is difficult to

track out their line of separation in man
himself.

2. — Difficulty of separating pere^tion from

judgment,

{Art of War).

All thinking is indeed art. Where the
logician draws the line, where the pre-
mises stop which are the result of cog-
nition— where judgment begins, there
art begins. But more than this : even
the perception of the mind is judgment
again, and consequently art ; and at last,
even the perception by the senses as well.
In a word, if it is impossible to imagine
a human being possessing merely the
faculty of cognition, devoid of judgment
or the reverse, so also art and science
can never be completely separated from
each other. The more these subtle ele-
ments of light embody themselves in the
outward forms of the world, so much the
more separate appear their domains ; and
now once more, where the object is crea-
tion and production, there is ^e province
of art ; where the object is investiga-
tion and knowledge science holds sway.
-^ After all this it residts of itself, that it
is more fitting to say art of war than
science of war.

So much for this, because we cannot
do without these conceptions. But now
we come forward with the assertion, that
war is neither an art nor a science in the
real signification, and that it is just the
setting out from that starting-point of
ideas whiph has led to a wrong direction
being taken, which has caused war to be

62

ON WAR.

[book il

put on a par with other arts and sciences,
and has led to a number of erroneous
analogies.

This has indeed been felt before now,
and on that account it was maintained
that war is a handicraft ; but there was
more lost than gained by that, for a
handicraft is only an inferior art, and as
such is also subject to definite and rigid
laws. In reality the art of war did go
on for some time in the spirit of a handi-
craft ; we allude to the times of the Con-
dottieri ; but then it had that direction,
not from intrinsic but from external
causes ; and military history shows how
little it was at that time in accordance
with the nature of the thing, or satis-
£actoiy.

3. — War U part of the tntsrcoune of the

human race.

We say therefore, war belongs not to
the province of arts and sciences, but to
the province of social life. It is a con-
flict of great interests which is settled by
bloodshed, and only in that is it differ-
ent from others. It would be better,
instead of comparing it with any art, to
liken it to trade, which is also a conflict
of human interests and activities ; and it
is still more like State policy, which again,
on its part, may be looked upon as a kind
of trade on a great scale. Besides, State
policy is the womb in which war is deve-
loped, in which its outlines lie hidden in
a rudimentary state, like the qualities of
living creatures in their germs.

4. — Difference,

The essential difference consists in this,
that war is no activity of the will, which
exerts itself upon inanimate matter like
the mechanical arts; or upon a living,
but still passive and yielding subject, like
tl^e human mind and the human feelings
in the ideal arts; but against a living
and re-acting force. How little the cate-
gories of arts and sciences are applicable
to such an activity strikes us at once ;
and we can understand, at the same time,
how that constant seeking and striving
after laws like those which may be deve-
loped out of the dead, material world,
could not but lead to constant errors.
And yet it is just the mechanical arts that
some people would imitate in the art of
war. The imitation of the ideal arts was
quite out of the question, because these
themselves dispense too much with laws
and rules, and those hitherto tried always
acknowledged as insufficient and one-
sided, are perpetually undermined and
washed away by the current of opinions,
feelings, and customs.

Whether such a conflict of the living,
as takes place cmd is settled in war rests,
subject to general laws, and whether
these are capable of indicating a useful
line of action, will be partly investigated
in this book ; but so much is evident in
itself, that this, like every other subject
which does not surpass our powers of
understanding, may be lighted up, and
be made more or less plain in its inner
relations by an enquiring mind, and that
alone is sufficient to realise the idea of a
theory.

CHAP. IV.]

METHODICISM.

63

CHAPTER IV.

METHODICISM.

Ik order to explain otarBelyes clearly as
to the conception of method and method
of action which play such an important
part in war, we must be allowed to cast
a hasty glance at the logical hierarchy,
through which, as through reg^arly con-
stituted official functionaries, the world
of action is goremed.

LdWj in the widest sense strictly apply-
ing to perception as well as action, has
plainly something subjectiye and arbi«
trary in its literal meaning, and still
expresses just that on which we and
those things external to us are dependent.
As a subject of cognition, Law is the
relation of things and their effects to one
another ; as a subject of the will it is a
motive of action, and is then equivalent
to eommmnd or prohibitum.

Principle is likewise such a law for
action, except that it has not the formal
definite meaning, but is only the spirit
and sense of law in order to leave the
judgment more freedom of application
when the diversity of the real world can«
not be laid hold of under the definite
form of a Law. As the judgment must
of itself suggest the cases in which the
principle is not applicable, the latter
therefore becomes in that way a real
aid or guiding star for the person act-
ing.

Principle is objective when it is the
result of objective truth, and consequently
of equal value for all men ; it is subjec-
tive, and then generally called Maxim if
there are subjective relations in it, and
if it therefore has a certain value only
for the person himself who makes it.

Rule is frequently taken in the sense

of Law^ and then means the same as
Principle f for we say '* no Bule without
exceptions," but we do not say '' no Law
without exceptions,'* a sig^ that with
Rule we retain to ourselves more freedom
of application.

In another meaning Rule is the means
used of discerning a recondite truth in a
particular sign lying dose at hand, in
order to attach to this particular sign the
law of action directed upon the whole
truth. Of this kind are all the rules of
games of play, all abridged processes in
mathematics, &c.

Directions and instructions are deter-
minations of action which have an in-
fluence upon a number of minor circum-
stances too numerous and unimportant
for general laws.

Lastly, Method^ mode of acting, is an
always recurring proceeding selected out
of several possible ones ; and Methodicism
(MsTHODisMus) is that which is deter-
mined by Methods instead of by general
principles or particular prescriptions. By
this the cases which are placed under
such methods must necessarily be sup-
posed alike in their essential parts. As
they cannot all be this, then the point is
that at least as many as possible should
be ; in other words that Method should
be calculated on the most probable cases.
Methodicism is therefore not founded
on determined particular premises, but
on the average probability of cases one
with another ; and its ultimate tendency
is to set up an average truth, the con-
stant and uniform application of which
soon acquires something of the nature
of a mechanical appliance, which in

64

ON WAR.

[book it.

the end does that whlcli is right ahnost
tmwittingly.

The conception of Law in relation to
perception, is not necessary for the
conduct of war, because the complex
phenomena of war are not so regular
and the regular are not so complex that
we should gain anything more by this
conception than by the simple truth.
And where a simple conception and lan-
guage is sufficient, to resort to the com-
plex becomes affected and pedantic.
The conception of law in relation to
action cannot be used in the theory of
the conduct of war, because owing to the
variableness and diversity of the pheno-
mena there is in it no determination
of such a general nature as to deserve
the name of law.

But principles, rules, prescriptions, and
methods are conceptions indispensable to
a theory of the conduct of war, in so far
as that theory leads to positive doctrines ;
because in doctrines the truth can only
crystallise itself in such forms.

As tactics is the branch of the conduct
of war in which theory can attain the
nearest to positive doctrine, therefore
in it these conceptions will appear most
frequently.

Not to use cavalry against unbroken
infantry except in some case of special
emergency ; only to use firearms within
effective range in the combat; to spare
the forces as much as possible for the
final struggle, these are tactical prin-
ciples. None of them can be applied
absolutely in every case, but they must
always be present to the mind of the
chief, in onier that the benefit of the
truth contained in them may not be lost
in cases where that truth can be of advan-
tage.

If from the unusual cooking by an
enemy's corps his movement is inferred,
if the intentional exposure of troops in a
combat indicates a false attack, then this
way of discerning the truth is called rule,
because from a single visible circum-

stance that conclusion is drawn which
corresponds with the same.

If it is a rule to attack the enemy with
renewed vigour, as soon as he begins to
Umber up his artillery in the combat,
then on this particidar fact depends a
course of action which is aimed at the
general situation of the enemy as inferred
from the above fact, namely, that he is
about to give up the fight, that he is
commencing to draw off his troops, and
is neither capable of making a serious
stand while thus drawing off, nor of
making his retreat gradually in good
order.

Hegtdaticns and methods bring prepara-
tory theories into the conduct of war,
in so far that disciplined troops are in-
oculated with them as active principles.
The whole body of instructions ^for for-
mations, exercise, and field service, are
regulations and methods ; in the exercise
instructions the first predominate, in the
field service instructions the latter. To
these things the real conduct of war
attaches itself ; it takes them over, there-
fore, as given modes of proceeding, and
as such they must appear in the theory
of the conduct of war.

But for those activities retaining free-
dom in the employment of these forces,
there cannot be regulations, that is, defi-
nite instructions, because they would do
away with freedom of action. Methods,
on the other hand, as a general way
of executing duties as they arise, calcu-
lated, as we have said, on an average
of probability, or as a dominating in-
fluence of principles and rules carried
through to application, may certainly
appear in the theory of the conduct
of war, provided only they are not
represented as something different to
what they are, not represented as the
absolute and necessary modes of action
(systems), . but as the best of general
forms which may be used as shorter
ways in place of a particular disposi-
tion for the occasion at discretion.

CHAP, m.]

METHOBICISM.

65

But the frequent application of methods
will be seen to be most essential and un-
avoidable in the conduct of war, if we'
reflect how much action proceeds on mere
conjecture, or in complete uncertainty,
because one side is prevented from learn-
ing all the circumstances which influence
the dispositions of the other, or because,
even if these circumstances which in-
fluence the decisions of the one were
really known, there is not, owing to their
extent and the dispositions they would
entail, su£S.cient time for the other
to carry out all necessary counteracting
measures — ^that therefore measures in war
must always be calculated on a certain
number of possibilities. If we reflect how
numberless are the trifling things belong-
ing to any single event, and which there-
fore should be taken into account along
with it, and that therefore there is no
other mean 3 but to suppose the one coun-
teracted by the other, and to base our
arrangements only upon what is of a
general nature and probable ; if we reflect
lastly that, owing to the increasing num-
ber of officers as we descend the scale of
rank, less must be left to the true dis-
cernment and ripe judgment of indi-
viduals the lower the sphere of action ;
and that when we reach those ranks where
we can look for no other notions but those
which the regulations of the service and
experience afford, we must help them with
the methodic forms bordering on those
regulations. This will serve both as a
support to their judgment and a barrier
against those exti'avagant and erroneous
views which are so especially to be dreaded
in a sphere where experience is so costly.

Besides this absolute need of method
in action, we must also acknowledge that
it has a positive advantage, which is that,
through the constant repetition of a for-
mal exercise, a readiness, precision, and
firmness is attained in the movement of
troops, which diminishes the natural
friction, and makes the machine move
easier.

Method will therefore be the more
generally used, become the more indis-
pensable, the further down the scale of
rank the position of the active agent ;
and on the other hand, its use will di-
minish upwards, until in the highest
position it quite disappears. For this
reason it is more in its place in tactics
than in strategy.

War in its highest aspects consists not
of an inflnite number of little events, the
diversities in which compensate each
other, and which, therefore, by a better
or worse method are better or worse
governed, but of separate great decisive
events which must be decdt with sepa-
rately. It is not a fleld of stalks which,
without any regard to the particular form
of each stalk, will be mowed better or
worse, according as the mowing instru-
ment is good or bad; but large trees,
to which the axe must be laid with judg-
ment, according to the particular form
and inclination of each separate trunk.

How high up in military activity the
admissibility of method in action reaches
naturally determines itself, not according
to actual rank, but according to things ;
and it affects the highest positions in a
less degree, only because these positions
have the most comprehensive subjects of
activity. A constant order of battle, a
constant formation of advanced guards
and outposts, are methods by which a
genercQ ties not only his subordinates*
hands, but also his own in certain cases.
Certainly, they may have been devised
by himself, and may be applied by him
according to circumstances; but they may
also be a subject of theory, in so far as
they are based on the general properties
of troops and weapons. On the other
hand, any method by which definite plans
for wars or campaigns are to be given
out all ready made as if from a machine
are absolutely worthless.

As long as there exists no theory
which can be sustained, that is no en-
lightened treatise on the conduct of war.

66

ON WAR.

[book n.

method in action cannot but encr6ach
beyond its proper limits in high places,
for men employed in these spheres of
activity have not always had the oppor-
tunity of educating themselves, through
study and through contact with the higher
interests : in the impretcticable and in-
consistent disquisitions of theorists and
critics they cannot find their way, their
sound common sense rejects them, and as
they bring with them no knowledge but
that derived from experience ; therefore,
in those cases which admit of, and
require a free individual treatment, they
readily make use of the means which
experience gives them, that is an imita-
tion of the particular methods practised
by g^at Generals, by which a method of
action then takes place of itself. If we
see Frederick the Great's Generals al-
ways making their appearance in the so-
called oblique order of battle, the Gene-
rals of the French devolution always
using turning movements with a long
extended line of battle, and Buonaparte^s
Lieutenants rushing to the attack with
the bloody energy of concentrated masses,
then we recognise in the recurrence of
the mode of proceeding evidently an
adopted method, and see therefore that
method of action can reach up to regions
bordering on the highest. Should an
improved theory facilitate the study of
the conduct of war, form the mind and
judgment of men who are rising to the
highest commands, then also Method in
action \^ill no longer reach so far, and so
much of it as is to be considered indis-
pensable will then at least be formed
from theo^ itself, and not take place out
of mere imitation. However preemi-

nently a great Commander does things,
there is always something subjective in
the way he does them ; and if he has a
certain manner, a large share of his indi-
viduality is contained in it, which does
not always accord with the individuality
of the person who copies his manner.

At the same time it would neither be
possible nor right to banish subjective
methodicism or manner completely from
the conduct of war: it is rather to be
regarded as a manifestation of that in*
fluence which the general character of
a war has upon its separate events, and
to which satisfaction can only be done in
that way if theory is not able to foresee
this general character, and include it in
its considerations. What is more natural
than that the war of the French Bevolu-
tion had its own way of doing things?
and what theory could ever have included
that peculiar method ? The evil is only
that such a manner originating in a
special case, easily outlives itself, be-
cause it continues whilst circumstances
imperceptibly change. This is what the-
ory should prevent by lucid and rational
criticism. When in the year 1806 the
Prussian Generals, Prince Louis at Saal-
feld, Tauentzien on the Dornberg near
Jena, Grawert before and Biichel behind
Kappeldorf, all together threw them-
selves into the open jaws of destruction,
with the oblique order of Frederick the
Great, and managed to ruin Hohenlohe's
army in a way that no army was ever
ruined, even on the field of battle. All
this was done through a manner which
had outlived its day, together with the
most downright stupidity to which me-
thodicism ever led*

CHAP, v.]

CRITICISM.

67

CHAPTER V.

CRITICISM.

The influence of theoretical principles
upon real life is produced more through
criticiBni than through doctrine, for as
criticism is an application of abstract
truth to real events, therefore it not only
brings truth of this description nearer to
life, but also accustoms tbe understand-
ing more to such truths by the constant
repetition of their application. We,
therefore, think it necessary to flx the
point of view for criticism next to that
for theory.

From the simple narration of an histo-
rical occurrence which places events in
chronological order, or, at most, only
touches on their more immediate causes,
we separate the critical.

In this critical, three different opera*
tions of the mind may be observed.

First, the historical investigation and
determining of doubtful facts. This is
properly historical research, and has
nothing in common with theory.

Secondly, the tracing of effects to
causes. This is the real critical inquiry ;
it is indispensable to theory, for every-
thing which in theory is to be established,
supported, or even merely explained by
experience, can only be settled in this way.

Thirdly, the testing of the means
employed. This is critidBtn^ properly
•peaking^ in which praise and censure is
contained. This is where theory helps
history, or rather, the teaching to be de-
rived from it.

In these two last strictly critical parts
of historical study, all depends on
tracing things to their primary elements,
that is to say, up to undoubted truths,
and not, as is so often done, resting half-

way, that is, on some arbitrary assump-
tion or supposition.

As respects the tracing of effect to
cause, that is often attended with the in-
superable difficulty that the real causes
are not known. In none of the relations
of life does this so frequently happen as
in war, where events are seldom fully
known, and still less motives, as the latter
have been, perhaps purposely, concealed
by the chief actor, or have been of such a
transient and accidental character that
they have been lost for history. For
this reason critical narration must gene-
rally proceed hand in hand with histori-
cal investigation, and still such a want of
connection between cause and effect will
often present itself that it does not seem
justified in considering effects as the ne-
cessary results of known causes. Here,
therefore, voids must occur, that is, his-
torical results, which cannot be made use
of for teaching. All that theory can de-
mand is, that the investigation should be
rigidly conducted up to that point and
there leave off without drawing conclu-
sions. A real evil springs up only if the
known is made perforce to suffice as an
explanation of effects, and thus a false
importance is ascribed to it.

Besides this difficulty, critical inquiry
also meets with another great and in-
trinsic one, which is, that the progress
of events in war seldom proceeds from
one simple cause, but from several in
common, and that it therefore is not
sufficient to follow up a series of events
to their origin in a candid and impartial
spirit, but that it is then also necessary
to apportion to each coutributing cause

68

ON WAR.

[book n.

its due weight. This leads, therefore, to
a closer inyestigation of their nature, and
thus a critical investigation may lead
into what is the proper field of theory.

The critical consideration^ that is, the
testing of the means, leads to the ques-
tion, Which are the effects peculiar to
the means applied, and whether these
effects were comprehended in the plans
of the person directing ?

The effects peculiar to the means lead
to the inyestigation of their nature, and
thus again into the field of theory.

We have abready seen that in criticism
all depends upon attaining to positive
truth ; therefore, that we must not stop
at arbitrary propositions which are not
allowed by others, and to which other,
perhaps, equally arbitrary assertions
may again be opposed, so that there is
no end to pros and cons. ; the whole is
without result, and therefore, without
instruction.

We have seen that both the search for
causes, and the examination of means,
lead into the field of theory ; that is, into
the field of universal truth, which does
not proceed solely from the case immedi-
ately under examination. If there is a
theory which can be used, then the criti-
cal consideration will appeal to the proofs
there afforded, and the examination may
there stop. £ut where no such theoretical
truth is to be found, the inquiry must be
pushed up to the original elements. If this
necessity occurs often, it must lead the his-
torian (according to a common expression)
into a labyrinth of details. He then has
his hands full, and it is impossible for
him to stop to give the requisite atten-
tion everywhere ; the consequence is,
that in order to set bounds to his investi-
gation, he adopts some arbitrary assump-
tions which, if they do not appear so to
him, do so to others, as they are not
evident in themselves or capable of proof.

A sound theory is therefore an essen-
tial foundation for criticism, and it is
impossible for it, without the assistance

of a sensible theory, to attain to that
point at which it commences chiefly to be
instructive, that is, where it becomes
demonstration, both convincing and sans
replique.

But it would be a visionary hope to
believe in the possibility of a theory
applicable to every abstract truth, leaving
nothing for criticism to do but to place
the case under its appropriate law : it
would be ridiculous pedantry to lay down,
as a rule for criticism, that it must al-
ways halt and turn round on reaching
the boundaries of sacred theory. The
some spirit of analytical inquiry, which
is the origin of theory, must also guide
the critic in his work ; and it can and
must therefore happen that he strays
beyond the boundaries of the province of
theory, and elucidates those points with
which he is more particularly concerned.
It is more likely, on the contrary, that
criticism would completely fail in its
object if it degenerated into a mechanical
application of theory. All positive re-
sults of theoretical inquiry, all principles,
rules, and methods, are the more wanting
in generality and positive truth the more
they become positive doctrine. They
exist to offer themselves for use as re-
quired, and it must always be lefk for
judgment to decide whether they are
suitable or not. Such results of theory
must never be used in criticism as rules
or norms for a standard, but in the same
way as the person acting should use
them, that is, merely as aids to judg-
ment. If it is an acknowledged principle
in tactics that in the usual order of battle
cavalry should be placed behind infantry,
not in line with it, still it would be folly*
on this account to condemn every devia-
tion from this principle. Criticism must
investigate the grounds of the deviation,
and it is only in case these are insufficient
that it has a right to appeal to principles
laid down in theory. If it is further
established in theory that a divided at-
tack diminishes the probability of sue-

CHAP, v.]

CRITICISM.

69

cess, still it would be just as unreason-
able, whenever there is a divided attack
and an unsuccessful issue, to regard the
latter as the result of the former, without
further investigation into the connection
between the two, or where a divided
attack is successful, to infer £:om it the
fallacy of that theoretical principle. The
spirit of investigation which belongs to
criticism cannot allow either. Criticism
therefore supports itself chiefly on the
results of the analytical investigation of
theory; what has been made out and
determined by theory does not require
to be demonstrated over again by criti-
cism, and it is so determined by theory
that criticism may find it ready demon-
strated.

This office of criticism, of examining
the effect produced by certain causes, and
whether a means applied has answered
its object, will be easy enough if cause
and effect, means and end, are all near
together.

If an army is surprised, and therefore
cannot make a regular and intelligent
use of its powers and resources, then
the effect of the surprise is not doubtful.-—
If theory has determined that in a battle
the convergent form of attack is calcu-
lated to produce greater but less certain
results, then the question is whether he
who employs that convergent form had
in view chiefly that greatness of result
as his object; if so the proper means
were chosen. But if by this form he
intended to make the result more
certain, and that expectation was founded
not on some exceptional circumstances
(in this case), but on the general nature
of the convergent form, as has happened
a hundred times, then he mistook the
nature of the means and committed an
error.

Here the work of military investigation
and criticism is easy, and it will always
be BO when conflned to the immediate
effects and objects. This can be done
quite at option, if we abstract the con-

nection of the parts with the whole,
and only look at things in that relation.

But in war, as generally in the world,
there is a connection between everything
which belongs to a whole ; and, therefore,
however small a cause may be in itself,
its effects reach to the end of the act of
warfare, and modify or influence the
final result in some degree, let that
degree be ever so small. In the same
manner every means must be felt up to
the ultimate object.

We can, therefore, trace the effects of
a cause as long as events are worth
noticing, and in the same way we must
not stop at the testing of a means for
the immediate object, but test also this
object as a means to a higher one, and
thus ascend the series of facts in succes-
sion, until we come to one so absolutely
necessary in its nature as to require no
examination or proof. In many cases,
particularly in what concerns g^eat and
decisive measures, the investigation must
be carried to the final aim, to that which
leads immediately to peace.

It is evident that in thus ascending,
at every new station which we reach, a
new point of view for the judgment is
attained ; so that the same means which
appeared advisable at one station, when
looked at from the next above it, may
have to be rejected.

The search for the causes of events,
and the comparison of means with ends
must always go hcmd in hand in the
critical review of an act ; for the investiga-
tion of causes, leads us first to the dis-
covery of those things which are worth
examining.

This following of the clue up and down
is attended with considerable difficulty,
for the further from an event the cause
lies which we are looking for, the greater
must be the number of other causes
which must at the same time be kept in
view, and allowed for in reference to the
share which they have in the coui-se of
events, and then eliminated, because the

70

ON WAR.

[book II.

higher the importance of a fact, the
greater will be the number of separate
forces and circumstances by which it is
conditioned. If we have unravelled the
causes of a battle being lost, we have
certainly also ascertained a part of the
causes of the consequences which this
defeat has upon the whole war, but only
a part, because the effects of other causes,
more or less according to circumstances,
wiU flow into the flnal result.

The same multiplicity of circumstances
is presented also in the examination of
the means the higher our point of view ;
for the higher the object is situated, the
greater must be the number of means
employed to reach it. The ultimate
object of the war is the object aimed at
by all the armies simultaneously, and it
is therefore necessary that the considera-
tion should embrace all that each has
done or could have done.

It is obvious that this may sometimes
lead to a wide field of inquiry, in which
it is easy to wander and lose the way,
and in which this difficulty prevails — ^that
a number of assumptions or suppositions
must be made about a variety of things
which do not actually appear, but which
in all probability did take place, and
therefore cannot possibly be left out of
consideration.

When Buonaparte, in 1797,* at the
head of the army of Italy, advanced from
the Tagliamento against the Archduke
Charles, he did so with a view to force
that general to a decisive action before
the reinforcements expected from the
Bhine had reached him. If we look only
at the immediate object, the means were
well chosen and justified by the result,
for the Archduke was so inferior in num-
bers, that he only made a show of resist-
ance on the Tagliamento, and when he
saw his adversary so strong and resolute,
yielded ground, and left open the pas-

• Compare ** Hinterlassene Werke," 2 Auflage,
Bd. iv. S. 276 ff.

sages of the Norican Alps. Now to
what use could Buonaparte turn this for-
tunate event? To penetrate into the
heart of the Austrian empire itself, to
facilitate the advance of the Rhine armies
under Moreau and Hoche, and open com-
munication with them ? This was the view
taken by Buonaparte, and from this point
of view he was right. But, now, if criti-
cism places itself at a higher point of
view — namely, that of the Erench Direc-
tory, which body could see and know
that the armies on the Bhine could not
commence the campaign for six weeks,
then the advance of Buonaparte over the
Norican Alps can only be regarded as an
extremely hazardous measure ; for if the
Austrians had drawn largely on their
Bhine armies to reinforce their army in
Styria, so as to enable the Archduke to
fall upon the army of Italy, not only
would that army have been routed, but
the whole campaign lost. This conside-
ration, which attracted the serious atten-
tion of Buonaparte at Yillach, no doubt
induced him to sign the armistice of
Leoben with so much readiness.

If criticism takes a still liigher position,
and if it knows that the Austrians had no
reserves between the army of the Arch-
duke Charles and Vienna, then we see
that Vienna became threatened by the
advance of the army of Italy.

Supposing that Buonaparte knew that
the capital was thus uncovered, and knew
that he still retained the same superiority
in numbers over the Archduke as he had in
Styria, then his advance against the heart
of the Austrian States was no longer
without purpose, and its value depended
on the value which the Austrians might
place on preserving their capital. If that
was so great that, rather than lose it,
they would accept the conditions of peace
which Buonaparte was ready to offer
them, it became an object of the first
importance to threaten Vienna. If Buona-
parte had any reason to know this, then
criticism may stop there \ but if this

QHAF. V]

CRITICISM.

71

point was only problematical^ then criti-
cism must take a still higher position,
and ask what would haye followed if the
Austrians had resolved to abandon Yien-
and retire farther into the vast

na

dominions still left to them. But it is
easy to see that this question cannot be
answered without bringing into the con-
sideration the probable movements of the
Bhine armies on both sides. Through
the decided superiority of numbers on
the side of the French— 130,000 to 80,000
-—there could be little doubt of the result;
but then next arises the question, What
use would the Directory make of a vic-
tory ; whether they would follow up their
success to the opposite frontiers of the
Austrian monarchy, therefore to the com-
plete breaking up or overthrow of that
power, or whether they would be satisfied
with the conquest of a considerable por-
tion to serve as a security for peace?
The probable result in each case must be
estimated, in order to come to a conclu-
sion as to the probable determination of
the Directory. Supposing the result of
these considerations to be that the
French forces were much too weak for
the complete subjugation of the Austrian
monarchy, so that the attempt might
completely reverse the respective posi*
tions of the contending armies, and that
even the conquest and occupation of a
considerable district of country would
place the French army in strategic rela-
tions to which they were not equal, then
that result must naturally influence the
estimate of the position of the army of
Italy, and compel it to lower its expecta-
tions. And this it was no doubt which
influenced Buonaparte, although fully
aware of the helpless condition of the
Archduke, still to sign the peace of
Campo Formio, whichimposed no greater
sacrifices on the Austrians than the loss
of provinces which, even if the campaign
took the most favourable turn for them,
they could not have reconquered. But
the French could not have reckoned on

even the moderate treaty of Oampo For-
mio, and therefore it could not have been
their object in making their bold advance
if two considerations had not presented
themselves to their view, the first of
which consisted in the question, what
degree of value the Austrians would
attach to each of the above-mentioned
results; whether, notwithstanding the
probability of a satisfactory residt in
either of these cases, would it be worth
while to make the sacrifices inseparable
from a continuance of the war, when they
could be spared those sacrifices by a peace
on terms not too humiliating ? The second
consideration is the question whether the
Austrian G-ovemment, instead of seriously
weighing the possible results of a resist-
ance pushed to extremities, would not
prove completely disheartened by the
impression of their present reverses.

The consideration which forms the
subject of the first question is no idle
piece of subtle argument, but a considera-
tion of such decidedly practical impor-
tance that it comes up whenever the plan
of pushing war to the utmost extremity
is mooted, and by its weight in most
cases restrains the execution of such
plans.

The second consideration is of equal
importance, for we do not make war with
an abstraction but with a reality, which
we must always keep in view, and we
may be sure that it was not overlooked
by the bold Buonaparte — that is — that
he was keenly alive to the terror which
the appearance of his sword inspired.
It was reliance on that which led him to
Moscow. There it led him into a scrape.
The terror of him had been weakened
by the gigantic struggles in which he
had been engaged ; in the year 1797 it
was still fresh, and the secret of a resist-
ance pushed to extremities had not been
discovered; nevertheless even in 1797
his boldness might have led to a negative
result if, as already said, he had not
with a sort of presentiment avoided it

72

ON WAR.

[book n.

by Bigning the moderate peace of Campo
Pormio.

We must now bring these considera-
tions to a close — they will stifiB.ce to show
the wide sphere, the diversity and em-
barrassing nature of the subjects em-
braced in a critical examination carried
to the fullest extent, that is to those
measures of a great and decisive class
which must necessarily be included. It
follows from them that besides a theo-
retical acqucdntance with the subject,
natural talent must also have a great
influence on the value of critical exami-
nations, for it rests chiefly with the lat-
ter to throw the requisite light on the
interrelations of things, and to distinguish
from amongst the endless connections
of events those which are really essen-
tial.

But talent is also called into requisition
in another way. Critical examination is
not merely tiie appreciation of those
means which have been actually em-
ployed, but also of all possible means,
which therefore must be suggested in
the first place^that is — must be dis-
covered, and the use of any particular
means is not fairly open to censure until
a better is pointed out. Now, however
small the number of possible combina«
tions may be in most cases, still it must
be admitted that to point out those
which have not been used is not a mere
analysis of actual things, but a spon-
taneous creation which cannot be pre-
scribed, and depends on the fertility
of genius.

We are far from seeing a field for great
genius in a case which admits only of the
application of a few simple combinations,
and we think it exceedingly ridiculous to
hold up, as is often done, the turning of
a position as an invention showing the
highest genius; still nevertheless this
creative self- activity on the part of the
critic is necessary, and it is one of
the points which essentially determine
the value of critical examination.

When Buonaparte on 30th July, 1796,*
determined to raise the siege of Mantua,
in order to march with his whole force
against the enemy, advancing in separate
columns to the relief of the place, and to
beat them in detail, this appeiu^ the
surest way to the attainment of brilliant
victories. These victories actually fol-
lowed, and were afterwards again re-
peated on a still more brilliant scale on
the attempt to relieve the place being
again renewed. We hear only one opin-
ion on these achievements, that of un-
mixed admiration.

At the same time Buonaparte could
not have adopted this course on the dOth
July without quite giving up the idea of
the siege of Mantua, because it was im-
possible to save the siege train, and it
could not be replaced by another in this
campaign. In fact, the siege was con-
verted into a blockade, and the place,
which if the siege had continued must
have very shortly fallen, held out for six
months in spite of Buonaparte's victories
in the open field.

Criticism has generally regarded this
as an evil that was imavoidable, because
critics have not been able to suggest any
better course. Besistance to a relieving
army within lines of circumvallation had
fallen into such disrepute and contempt
that it appears to have entirely escaped
consideration as a means. And yet in
the reign of Louis XIY, that measure
was so often used with success that we
can only attribute to the force of fashion
the fact that a hundred years later it
never occurred to anyone even to propose
such a measure. If the practicability of
such a plan had even been entertained
for a moment, a closer consideration of
circumstances would have shown that
40,000 of the best infantry in the world
under Buonaparte, behind strong lines of
circimivallation round Mantua, had so

* Compare " Hinterlassene Werke," 2 Aufiage,
Bd. iv., 8. 107 ff.

CHAP, v.]

CRITICISM.

73

little to fear from the 50,000 men coming
to the relief under Wurmser, that it was
yery unlikely that even any attempt would
be made upon their lines. We shall not
seek here to establish this point ; but we
believe enough has been said to show
that this means was one which had a
right to a share of consideration. Whe-
ther Buonaparte himself ever thought of
such a plan we leave undecided ; neither
in his memoirs nor in other sources is
there any trace to be found of his having
done so ; in no critical works has it been
touched upon, the measure being one
which the mind had lost sight of. The
merit of resuscitating the idea of this
means is not great, for it suggests itseK
at once to anyone who breaks loose from
the trammels of fashion. Still it is neces-
sary that it should suggest itself for us to
bring it into consideration, and compare
it with the means which Buonaparte em-
ployed. Whatever may be the result of
the comparison, it is one which should
not be omitted by criticism.

When Buonaparte, in February, 1814,*
after gaining the battles at Etoges,
Champ- A.ubert, and Montmirail, left
Bliicher's army, and turning upon
Schwartzenberg, beat his corps at Mon-
tereau and Mormant, every one was
filled with admiration, because Buona-
parte, by thus throwing his concentra-
ted force first upon one opponent,
then upon another, made a brilliant
use of the mistakes which his adver-
saries had committed in dividing their
forces. If these brilliant strokes in dif-
ferent directions failed to save him, it
was generally considered to be no faidt
of his, at least. No one has yet asked
the question, What would have been the
result if, instead of turning from Blu-
cher upon Schwartzenberg, he had
tried another blow at Bliicher, and pur-
sued him to the Bhine? We are con-

* Compare *' Hinterlaseene Werke," 2 Auflage,
Bd. vii., B. 193, ff.

vinced that it would have completely
changed the course of the campaign, and
that the allied army, instead of marching
to Paris, woidd have retired behind the
Bhine. We do not ask others to share
our conviction, but no one who under-
stands the thing will doubt, at the mere
mention of this alternative course, that it
is one which should not be overlooked in
criticism.

In this case the means of comparison
lie much more on the surface than in the
foregoing, but they have been equally
overlooked, because one-sided views have
prevailed, and there has been no freedom
of judgment.

From the necessity of pointing out a
better means which might have been
used in place of those which are con-
demned, has arisen the form of criticism
almost exclusively in use, which contents
itself with pointing out the better means
without demonstrating in what the supe-
riority consists. The consequence is that
some are not convinced ; that others start
up and do the same thing ; and that thus
discussion arises, which is without any
fixed basis for the argument. Military
literature abounds with matter of this sort.

The demonstration we require is al-
ways necessary when the superiority of
the means propounded is not so evident
as to leave no room for doubt, and it
consists in the examination of each of the
means on its own merits, and then of its
comparison with the object desired.
When once the thing is traced back to a
simple truth, controversy must cease, or
at all events a new result is obtained,
whilst by the other plan the pros and cons.
go on for ever consuming each other.

Should we, for example, not rest con-
tent with assertion in the case before
mentioned, and wish to prove that the
persistent pursuit of Bliicher would have
been more advantageous than the turning
on Schwartzenberg, we should support
the arguments on the following simple
truths : —

74

ON WAR.

[book n.

1. In general it is more advantageoua
to continue our blows in one and the
same direction, because there is a loss of
time in striking in different directions ;
and at a point where the moral power is
already shaken by considerable losses,
there is the more reason to expect fresh
successes ; therefore in that way no part
of the preponderance already gained is
left idle.

2. Because Bliicher, although weaker
than Schwartzenberg was, on account of
his enterprising spirit, the more impor-
tant adversary; in him, therefore, lay
the centre of attraction which drew the
others along in the same direction.

3. Because the losses which BlUcher
had sustained almost amounted to a
defeat, which gave Buonaparte such a
preponderance over him as to make his
retreat to the Bhine almost certain, and
at the same time no reserves of any con-
sequence awaited him there.

4. Because there was no other result
which would be so terrific in its aspects,
would appear to the imagination in such
gigantic proportions, an immense advan-
tage in dealing with a stciff so weak and
irresolute as that of Schwartzenberg
notoriously was at this time. What
had happened to the Crown Prince
of Wurtemberg at Montereau, and to
Count Wittgenstein at Mormant, Prince
Schwartzenberg must have known well
enough ; but all the untoward events on
Bliicher's distant and separate line from
the Marne to the Bhine, would only
reach him by the avalanche of rumour.
The desperate movements which Buona-
parte made upon Vitry at the end of
March, to see what the Allies would do if
he threatened to turn them strategically,
were evidently done on the principle of
working on their fears ; but it was done
under far different circumstances, in
consequence of his defeat at Laon and
Arcis, and because Blucher, with 100,000
men, was then in communication with
Schwartzenberg.

There are people, no doubt, who will
not be convinced on these arguments;
but at all events they cannot retort by
sajring, that '' whilst Buonaparte threat-
ened Schwartzenberg' s base by advan-
cing to the Bhine, Schwartzenberg at the
same time threatened Buonaparte's com-
munications with Paris ; " because we
have shown by the reasons above given
that Schwartzenberg woidd never have
thought of marching on Paris.

With respect to the example quoted
by us from the campaign of 1796, we
should say : Buonaparte looked upon the
plan he adopted as the surest means of
beating the Austrians; but admitting
that it was so, still the object to be at-
tained was only an empty victory, which
could have hardly any sensible influence
on the faU of Mantua. The way which
we should have chosen would, in 6ur
opinion, have been much more certain to
prevent the relief of Mantua ; but even
if we place ourselves in the position of
the French general and assume that it
was not so, and look upon the certainty
of success to have been less, the question
then amounts to a choice between a more
certain but less useful, and therefore less
important victory on the one hand, and
a somewhat less probable but far more
decisive and important victory on the
other hand. Presented in this form,
boldness must have declared for the
second solution, which is the reverse of
what took place, when the thing was only
superficially viewed. Buonaparte cer-
tainly was anything but deficient in bold-
ness ; and we may be sure that he did
not see the whole case and its conse-
quences as fully and clearly as we can
now at the present time.

Naturally the critic, in treating of the
means, must often appeal to military
history, as experience is of more value in
the art of war than all philosophical
truth. But this exemplification from
history is subject to certain conditions,
of which we shall treat in a special chap-

CHAP, v.]

CRITICISM,

75

ter; and unfortunately these conditions
are bo seldom regarded, that reference to
history generally only serves to increase
the confusion of ideas.

We have still a most important subject
to consider, which is, How far criticism
in passing judgments on particular events
is permitted, or in duty bound, to make
use of its wider view of things, and there-
fore also of that which is shown by
results; or when and where it should
leave out of sight these things in order
to place itself, as far as possible, in the
exact position of the chief actor ?

If criticism dispenses praise or censure
it should seek to place itself as nearly as
possible at the same point of view as the
person acting, that is to say, to collect
all he knew and all the motives on which
he acted, and, on the other hand, to
leave out of the consideration all that
the person acting could not or did not
know, and above all, the result. But
this is only an object to aim at, which
can never be reached because the state
of circumstances from which an event
proceeded can never be placed before the
eye of the critic exactly as it lay before
the eye of the person acting. A number
of inferior circumstances, which must
have influenced the result, are completely
lost to sight, and many a subjective mo-
tive has never come to light.

The latter can only be learnt from the
memoirs of the chief actor, or from his
intimate friends ; and in such memoirs
things of this kind are often treated of
in a very desultory manner, or piirposely
misrepresented. Criticism must, there-
fore, always forego much which was pre-
sent in the minds of those whose acts are
criticised.

On the other hand, it is much more
diffictdt to leave out of sight that which
criticism knows in excess. This is
only easy as regards accidental circum-
stances, that is, circumstances which
have been mixed up, but are in no way
necessarily related. But it is very diffi-

cult, and, in fact, can never be completely
done with regard to things really essential.

Let us take first the result. If it has
not proceeded from accidental circum-
stances it is almost impossible that the
knowledge of it should not have an effect
on the judgment passed on events which
have preceded it, for we see these things
in the light of this result, and it is to a
certain extent by it that we first become
acquainted with them and appreciate
them. Military history, with all its
events, is a source of instruction for cri-
ticism itself and it is only natural that
criticism shoidd throw that light on things
which it has itself obtcdned from the con-
sideration of the whole. If, therefore, it
might wish in some cases to leave the
result out of the consideration, it would
be impossible to do so completely.

But it is not only in relation to the re-
sult, that is, with what takes place at
the last, that this embarrassment arises ;
the same occurs in relation to preceding
events; therefore with the data which
furnished the motives to action. Criticism
has before it, in most cases, more infor-
mation on this point than the principal in
the transaction. Now it may seem easy to
dismiss from the consideration everything
of this nature, but it is not so easy as we
may think. The knowledge of preced-
ing and concurrent events is founded not
only on certain information, but on a
number of conjectures and suppositions ;
indeed, there is hardly any of the infor-
mation respecting things not purely acci-
dental which has not been preceded by
suppositions or conjectures destined to
take the place of certain information in
case such should never be supplied. Now
is it conceivable that criticism in after
times, which has before it as facts all
the preceding and concurrent circum-
stances, shoidd not allow itself to be
thereby influenced when it asks itself the
question, What portion of the circum-
stances, which at the moment of action
were unknown, it would have held to be

76

ON WAR,

[book n.

probable? We maintain that in this case,
as in the case of the results, and for the
same reason, it is impossible to disregard
all these things completely.

If therefore the critic wishes to bestow
praise or blame upon any single act, he
can only succeed to a certain degree in
placing himself in the position of the
person whose act he has under review.
In many cases he can do so sufficiently
near for any practical purpose, but in
many instances it is the very reverse,
and this fact should never be overlooked.

But it is neither necessary nor desir-
able that criticism should completely
identify itself with the person acting. In
war as in all matters of skill there is a
certain natural aptitude required which
is called talent. This may be great or
small. In the first case it may easily be
superior to that of the critic ; for what
critic can pretend to the skill of a Frede-
rick or a Buonaparte ! Therefore, if cri-
ticism is not to abstain altogether from
offering an opinion where eminent talent
is concerned, it must be allowed to make
use of the advantage which its enlarged
horizon affords. Criticism must not,
therefore, treat the solution of a problem
by a great General like a sum in arith-
metic ; it is only through the results and
through the exact coincidences of events,
that it can recognise with admiration
how much is due to the exercise of
genius, and that it first learns the es-
sential combination which the glance of
that genius devised.

But for every, even the smallest, act of
genius it is necessary that criticism should
take a higher point of view, so that, hav-
ing at command many objective grounds
of decision, it may be as little subjective
as possible, and that the critic may not
take the limited scope of his own mind
as a standard.

This elevated position of criticism, its

E raise and blame pronounced with a full
nowledge of all the circumstances, has
in itself nothing which hurts our feelings;

it only does so if the critic pushes him-
self forward, and speaks in a tone as if
all the wisdom which he has obtained by
an exhaustive examination of the event
under consideration were really his own
tcdent. Palpable as is this deception, it
is one which people may easily fall into
through vanity, and one which is natu-
rally distasteful to others. It very often
happens that although the critic has no
such arrogant pretensions, they are im-
puted to him by the reader because he
has not expressly disclaimed them, and
then follows immediately a charge of a
want of the power of critical judgment.

If, therefore, a critic points out an
error made by a Frederick or a Buona-
parte, that does not mean that he who
makes the criticism would not have com-
mitted the same error ; he may even be
ready to grant that had he been in the
place of these great generals he might
have made much greater mistakes; he
merely sees this error from the chain of
events, and he thinks that it should not
have escaped the sagacity of the general.

This is, therefore, an opinion formed
through the connection of events, and
therefore through the result. But there is
another quite different effect of the result
itself upon the judgment, that is if it is
used quite alone as an example for or
against the soundness of a measure. This
may be called judgment according to the
reiult. Such a judgment appears at first
sight inadmissible, and yet it is not.

When Buonaparte marched to Mos*
cow in 1812, all depended upon whether
the taking of the capital, and the events
which preceded the capture, should force
the Emperor Alexander to make peace,
as he had been compelled to do after
the battle of Friedland in 1807, and the
Emperor Francis in 1805 and 1809 after
Austerlitz and Wagram; for if Buona-
parte did not obtain a peace at Moscow,
there was no alternative but to return,
that is, there was nothing for him but
a strategic defeat. We shall leave out

CHAP, v.]

CRITICISM.

77

of the question what he did to get to
Moscow, and whether in his advance
he did not miss many opportunities of
hringing the Emperor Alexander to
peace; we shall also exclude all con-
sideration of the disastrous circumstances
which attended his retreat, and which
perhaps had their origin in the general
conduct of the campaign. StUl, the
question remains the same ; for however
much more brilliant the course of the
campaign up to Moscow might have been,
still there was always an uncertainty
whether the Emperor Alexander would be
intimidated into making peace ; and then,
even if a retreat did not contain in itself
the seeds of such disasters as did occur, still
it would never be anything else than a
great strategic defeat. If the Emperor
Alexander agreed to a peace which was
disadvantageous to him, the campaign of
1812 would have ranked with those of
Austerlitz, Friedland, and Wagram.
But these campaigns also, if they had
not led to peace, would in aU probability
have ended in similar catastrophes.
"Whatever, therefore, of genius, skill,
and energy the conqueror of the world
applied to the task, this last question ad-
dressed to fate * remained always the
same. Shall we then discard the cam-
paigns of 1805, 1807, 1809, and say on
account of the campaign of 1812 that
they were acts of imprudence ; that the
results were against the nature of things,
and that in 1812 strategic justice at last
found vent for itself in opposition to blind
chance ? That would be an unwarrant-
able conclusion, a most arbitrary judg-
ment, a case only half proved, because no
human eye can trace the thread of the
necessary connection of events up to the
determination of the conquered princes.

Still less can we say the campaign of
1812 merited the same success as the
others, and that the reason why it turned

* ** Vtw an der Schicksal," a familiar quotation
from SchiUer.— TR.

out otherwise, lies in something un-
nattiral, for we cannot regard the firm-
ness of Alexander as something un-
naturaL

What can be more natural than to say
that in the years 1805, 1807, 1809,
Buonaparte judged of his opponents cor-
rectly, and that in 1812 he erred in that
point. On the former occasions, there-
fore, he was right, in the latter wrong,
and in both cases we judge by the result.

All action in war, as we have already
said, is directed on probable, not on
certain results. Whatever is wanting
in certainty must always be left to
fate, or chance, call it which you will.
We may demand that what is so
left should be as little as possible, but
only in relation to the particular case,
that is, as little as is possible in this one
case, but not that the case in which the
least is left to chance, is always to be
preferred. That would be an enormous
error, as follows from all our theoretical
views. There are cases in which the
greatest daring is the greatest wisdom.

Now in everything which is left to
chance by the chief actor, his personal
merit, and therefore his responsibility as
well, seems to be completely set aside ;
nevertheless we cannot suppress an in-
ward feeling of satisfaction whenever
expectation realises itself, and if it dis-
appoints us our mind is dissatisfied ; and
more than this of right and wrong
should not be meant by the judgment
which we form from the mere result, or
rather that we find there.

Nevertheless, it cannot be denied that
the satisfaction which our mind experi-
ences at success, the pain caused by
failure, proceed from a sort of myste-
rious belief, we suppose between that
success ascribed to good fortune and the
genius of the chief a fine connecting
thread, invisible to the mind's eye, and
the supposition gives pleasure. What
tends to confirm this idea is that our
sympathy increases, becomes more de-

78

ON WAR.

[book n.

cided, if tlie successes and defeats of the
principal actor, are offcen repeated. Thus
it becomes intelligible how good luck in
war assumes a much nobler nature than
good luck at play. In general, when a for-
tunate warrior does not otherwise lessen
our interest in his behalf, we have a plea-
sure in accompan3dng him in his career.

Criticism, therefore, after haying
weighed all that comes within the sphere
of human reason and conviction, will let
the result speak for that part where the
deep mysterious relations are not disclosed
in any yisible form, and he will protect
this silent sentence of a higher authority
from the noise of crude opinions on the
one hand, while on the other he prevents
the gross abuse which might be made of
this last tribunal.

This verdict of the result must, there-
fore, always bring forth that which hu-
man sagacity cannot discover ; and it will
be chiefly as regards the intellectual
powers and operations that it will be
called into requisition, partly because
they can be estimated with the least cer-
tainty, partly because their close connec-
tion with the will is favourable to their
exercising over it an important influence.
When fear or bravery precipitate the
decision, there is nothing objective inter-
vening between them for our considera-
tion, and, consequently, nothing by which
sagacity and calculation might have met
the probable result.

We must now be allowed to make a
few observations on the instrument of
criticism, that is, the language which it
uses, because that is to a certain extent
connected with the action in war ; for the
critical examination is nothing more than
the deliberation which should precede
action in war. We, therefore, think it
very essential that the language used in
criticism should have the same character
as that which deliberation in war must
have, for otherwise it would cease to be
practical, and criticism could gain no ad*
mittance in actual life.

We have said in our observations on
the theory of the conduct of war that it
should educate the mind of the Comman-
der for war, or that its teaching should
guide his education ; also that it is not
intended to furnish him with positive doc-
trines and systems which he can use
like mental appliances. But if the con-
struction of scientific formula is never re-
qiiired or even allowable in war to aid
the decision on the case presented, if
truth does not appear there in a syste-
matic shape, if it is not found in an in-
direct way, but directly by the natural
perception of the mind, then it must be
the same also in a critical review.

It is true that we have seen that wher*
ever complete demonstration of the na-
ture of things would be too tedious, cri-
ticism must support itself on those truths
which theory has established on the
point. But, just as in war, the actor
obeys these ' theoretical truths rather be-
cause his mind is imbued with them than
because he regards them as objective in-
flexible laws, so criticism must also make
use of them, not as an external law or an
algebraic formula, of which fresh proof
is not required each time they are ap-
plied, but it must always throw a light
on this proof itself, leaving only to
theory the more minute and circumstan-
tial proof. Thus it avoids a mysterious
unintelligible phraseology, and makes its
progress in plain language, that i^ with
a clear and always visible chain of
ideas.

Certainly this cannot always be com-
pletely attained, but it must always be
the aim in critical expositions. Such ex-
positions must use complicated forms of
science as sparingly as possible, and
never resort to the construction of scien-
tific aids as of a truth apparatus of its own,
but always be guided by the natural and
unbiassed impressions of the mind.

But this pious endeavour, if we may
use the expression, has unfortunately
seldom hitherto presided over critical

CRAP, v.]

CRITICISM,

79

examinatioiis : the most of them have
rather been emanations of a species of
yanity — a wish to make a display of
ideas.

The first evil which we constantly
stumble upon is a lame, totally inadmis-
sible application of certain one-sided
systems as of a formal code of laws. But
it is never difficult to show the one-sided-
ness of such systems, and this only re-
quires to be done once to throw dis-
credit for ever on critical judgments
which are based on them. We have here
to deal with a definite subject, and as the
number of possible systems after all can
be but small, therefore, also, they are
themselves the lesser evil.

Much greater is the evil which lies in
the pompous retinue of technical terms —
scientific expressions and metaphors, which
systems have in their train, and which like
a rabble — like the baggage of an army
broken away £rom its chief — hang about
in all directions. Any critic who has not
adopted a system, either because he has
not found one to please him, or because
he has not yet been able to make himself
master of one, will at least occasionally
make use of a piece of one, as one would
use a ruler, to show the blunders com-
mitted by a general. The most of them
are incapable of reasoning without using
as a help here and there some shreds of
scientific military theory. The smallest
of these fragments, consisting in mere
scientific words and metaphors, are often
nothing more than ornamental flourishes
of critical narration. Now it is in the
nature of things that all technical and
scientific expressions which belong to a
Bjstem, lose their propriety, if they ever
had any, as soon as they are distorted,
and used as general axioms, or as small
crystal talismans, which have more power
of demonstration than simple speech.

Thus it has come to pass that our theo-
retical and critical books, instead of being
straightforward intelligible dissertations,
in which the author always knows at
least what he says and the reader what

he reads, are brimful of these technical
terms, which form dark points of inter-
ference where author and reader part
company. But frequently they are some-
thing worse, being nothing but hollow
shells without any kernel. The author
himself has no clear perception of what
he means, contents himself with vague
ideas, which, if expressed in plain Lan-
guage, would be unsatisfactory even to
himself.

A third fault in criticism is the mUvA^
o£ Historieal Examples, and a display of
great reading or learning. What the
history of the Art of War is we have
already said, and we shall further explain
our views on examples and on militcuy
history in general in special chapters.
One fact merely touched upon in a very
cursory manner may be used to support
the most opposite views, and three or
four such facts of the most heterogeneous
description, brought together out of the
most distant lands and remote times and
heaped up, generally distract and be-
wilder the judgment and understanding
without demonstrating anything ; for
when exposed to the light, they turn out
to be only trumpery rubbish, made use
of to show off the author's learning.

But what can be gained for practical
life by such obscure, partly false, con-
fused, arbitrary conceptions? 80 little
is gained, that theory on account of
them has always been a true antithesis
of practice, and frequently a subject of
ridicule to those whose soldierly qualities
in the field are above question.

But it is impossible that this could
have been the case, if theory in simple
language, and by natural treatment of
those things which constitute the art of
making war, had merely sought to estab-
lish just so much as admits of being
established ; if, avoiding all false preten-
sions and irrelevant display of scientific
forms and historical parallels, it had kept
dose to the subject, and gone hand in
hand with those who must conduct afEairs
in the field by their own natural genius.

80

ON WAR.

[book u.

CHAPTER VL

ON EXAMPLES.

Examples from history make everything
clear, and furnish the best description of
proof in the empirical sciences. This
applies with more force to the Art of war
than to any other. General Schamhorst,
whose hand-book is the best ever written
on actual war, pronounces historical
examples to be of the first importance,
and makes an admirable use of them
himself. Had he survived the war in
which he fell, the fourth part of his re-
vised treatise on artillery would have
given a still greater proof of the observ-
ing and enlightened spirit in which he
sifted matters of experience.

But such use of historical examples is
rarely made by theoretical writers; the
way in which they more commonly make
use of them is rather calculated to leave
the mind unsatisfied, as well as to offend
the understanding. We therefore think it
important to bring specially into view the
use and abuse of historical examples.

Unquestionably the branches of know-
ledge which lie at the foundation of the
Art of War come under the denomination
of empirical sciences ; for although they
are derived in a great measure from the
nature of things, still we can only learn
this very nature itself for the most part
from experience; and besides that, the
practical application is modified by so
many circumstances, that the effects can
never be completely learnt from the mere
nature of the means.

The effects of gunpowder, that gpreat
agent in our military activity, was only
learnt by experience ; and up to this hour
experiments are continually in progress
in order to investigate them more Mly.

That an iron ball, to which powder has
given a velocity of 1,000 feet in a second,
smashes every living thing which it
touches in its course, is intelligible in it-
self; experience is not required to tell us
that; but in producing this effect how
many hundred circumstances are con-
cerned, some of which can only be
learnt by experience ! And the physical
is not the only effect which we have to
study, it is the moral which we are in
search of, and that can only be ascer-
tained by experience ; and there is no
other way of learning and appreciating
it but by experience. In the middle
ages, when firearms were first invented,
their effect, owing to their rude make,
was materially but trifling compared to
what it now is, but their effect molrally
was much greater. One must have wit-
nessed the firmness of one of those masses
taught and led by Buonaparte, under the
heaviest and most unintermittent can*
nonade, in order to understand of what
troops, hardened by long practice in the
field of danger, can do, when by a career
of victory they have reached the noble
principle of demanding from themselves
their utmost efforts. In pure conception
no one would believe it. On the other
hand it is well known that there are
troops in the service of European powers ^j^
at the present moment who would easily *. J.^/^,
be dispersed by a few cannon shots. ^^ji^U

But no empirical science, consequently
also no theory of the art of war, can
always corroborate its truths by his-
torical proof ; it would also be, in some
measure, difficult to support experience
by single facts. If any mecms is once

OHAP. v.]

EXAMPLES.

81

found efficacious in war it is repeated ;
one copies another, the thing becomes
the fashion, and in this manner it comes
into use, supported by experience, and
takes its place in theory, which contents
itself widi appealing to experience in
general in order to show its origin, but
not as a verification of its truth.

But it is quite otherwise if experience
is to be used in order to overthrow some
means in use, to confirm what is doubtful,
or introduce something new ; then par-
ticular examples £rom history must be
quoted as proofs.

Now, if we consider closely the use of
historical proofs, four points of view
readily present themselves for the pur-
pose.

First, they may be used merely as an
expkmaiion of an idea. In every abstract
consideration it is very easy to be mis-
understood, or not to be iatelligible at
all : when an author is afraid of this, an
exemplification from history serves to
throw the light which is wanted on his
idea, and to ensure his being intelligible
to his reader.

Secondly, it may serve as an applica-
tion of an idea, because by means of an
example there is an opportunity of show-
ing Uie action of those minor circum-
stances which cannot all be comprehended
and explained in any general expression
of an idea ; for in that consists, indeed,
the difference between theory and expe-
rience. Both these cases belong to
examples properly speaking, the two fol-
lowing belong to historical proofs-

Thudly, a historical fact may be re-
ferred to particularly, in order to support
what one has advanced. This is in all
cases sufficient, if we have only to prove
the pomhility of a fact or effect.

Lastly, in the fourth place, from the
circumstantial detail of a historical event,
and by collecting together several of
them, we may deduce some theory, which
therefore has its true proof in this testi-
mony itself.

o

For the first of these purposes all that
is generally required is a cursory notice
of the case ; as it is only used partially.
Historical correctness is a secondary con-
sideration; a case invented might also
serve the purpose as well, only historical
ones are always to be preferred, because
they bring the idea which they illustrate
nearer to practical life.

The second use supposes a more cir-
cumstantial relation of events, but histor-
ical authenticity is again of secondary
importance, and in respect to this point
the same is to be said as in the first case.

For the third purpose the mere quota-
tion of an undoubted fact is generally
sufficient. If it is asserted that fortified
positions may fulfil their object imder
certain conditions, it is only necessary to
mention the position of Bunzelwitz in
support of the assertion.

But if, through the narrative of a case
in history, an abstract truth is to be
demonstrated, then everything in the case
bearing on the demonstration must be
analysed in the most searching and com-
plete manner ; it must, to a certain ex-
tent, develop itself carefully before the
eyes of the reader. The less effectually
this is done the weaker will be the proof,
and the more necessary it will be to sup-
ply the demonstrative proof which is
wanting in the single case by a number
of oases, because we have a right to sup-
pose that the more minute details which
we are unable to give neutralise each
other in their effects in a certain number
of cases.

If we want to show by example derived
from experience, that cavalry are better
placed behind than in a line with in-
fantiy ; that it is very hazardous without
a decided preponderance of numbers to
attempt an enveloping movement, with
widely separated columns, either on a
field of battle or in the theatre of war,
that is, either tactically or strategically ;
then in the first of these cases it woidd
not be sufficient to specify some lost bat-

82

ON WAR.

[book n.

ties in which the cavalry was on the
flanks, and some gained in which the
cavalry was in rear of the infantry ; and
in the latter of these cases it is not suffi-
cient to refer to the battles of Bivoli and
Wagram, to the attack of the Austrians
on the theatre of war in Italy, in 1796,
or of the French upon the German theatre
of war in the same year. The way in
which these orders of battle or plans of
attack essentially contributed to disas-
trous issues in those particular cases must
be shown by closely tracing out circum-
stances and occurrences. Then it will
appear how far such forms or measures
are to be condemned, a point which it is
very necessary to show, for a total con-
demnation would be inconsistent with
truth.

It has been already said that when a
circumstantial detail of facts is impossible,
the demonstrative power which is deficient
may, to a certain extent, be supplied by
the number of cases quoted ; but this is a
very dangerous method of getting out of
the difficulty, and one which has been
much abused. Instead of one well ex-
plained example, three or four are just
touched upon, and thus a show is made
of strong evidence. But there are mat-
ters where a whole dozen of cases brought
forward would prove nothing ; if for in-
stance, they are facts of frequent occur-
ranee, and therefore a dozen other cases
with an opposite result might just as
easily be brought forward. If any one
will instance a dozen lost battles in which
the side beaten attacked in separate con-
verging columns, we ceui instance a dozen
that have been gained, in which the same
order was adopted. It is evident that in
this way no result is to be obtained.

Upon carefully considering these dif-
ferent points, it will be seen how easily
examples may be mis-applied.

An occurrence which, instead of being
carefully analysed in all its parts, is
superficially noticed, is like an object
seen at a great distance, presenting the

same appearance on each side, and in
which the details of its parts cannot be
disting^shed. Such examples have, in
reality, served to support the most con-
tradictory opinions. To some, Daun's
campaigns are models of prudence and
skill. To others, they are nothing but
examples of timidity and want of resolu-
tion. Buonaparte's passage across the
Noric Alps ^in 1797, may be made to
appear the noblest resolution, but also as
an act of sheer temerity. His strategic
defeat in 1812 may be represented as
the consequence either of an excess or of
a deficiency of energy. All these opin-
ions have been broached, and it is easy
to see that they might veiy well arise,
because each person takes a difiTerent
view of the connection of events. At the
same time these antagonistic opinions
cannot be reconciled with each other, and
therefore one of the two must be wrong.

Much as we are obliged to the worthy
Fenqui^res for the numerous examples
introduced in his memoirs — ^partly because
a number of historical incidents have
thus been preserved which might other*
wise have been lost, and partly because
he was one of the first to bring theo-
retical, that is, abstract ideas, into con-
nection with the practical in war, in so
far that the cases brought forward may
be regarded as intended to exemplify and
confirm what is theoretically asserted^
yet, in the opinion of an impartial reader,
he will hardly be allowed to have at-
tained the object he proposed to himself,
that of proving theoretical principles by
historicsd examples. For although he
sometimes relates occurrences with great
minuteness, still he falls short veiy often
of showing that the deductions drawn
necessarily proceed from the inner rela-
tions of these events.

Another evil which comes from the
superficial notice of historical events, is
that some readers are either wholly igno-
rant of the events, or cannot call them to
remembrance sufficiently to be able to

CHAP. VI.J

ON EXAMPLES.

83

grasp the author's meaning, so that there
is no altematiye between either accepting
blindly what is said, or remaining un-
convinced.

It is extremely difficult to put together
or unfold historical events before the eyes
of a reader in such a way as is necessary,
in order to be able to use them as proofs ;
for the writer very often wants the
means, and can neither afford the time
nor the requisite space ; but we maintain
that when the object is to establish a
new or doubtful opinion, one single
example, thoroughly analysed, is 'far
more instructive than ten which are
superficially treated. The great mis-
chief of these superficial representa-
tions is not that the writer puts his
story forward as a proof when it has
only a false title, but that he has not
made himself properly acquainted with
the subject, and that from this sort of
slovenly, shallow treatment of history,
a hundred false views and attempts at
the construction of theories arise, which
would never have made their appearance
if the writer had looked upon it as his
duty to deduce from the strict connec-
tion of events everything new which he
brought to market, and sought to prove
from history.

When we are convinced of these diffi-
culties in the use of historical examples,
and at the same time of the necessity
(of making use of such examples), then
we shall also come to the conclusion that
the latest military history is naturally the
best field from which to draw them, inas-
much as it alone is sufficiently authentic
and detailed.

In ancient times, circumstances con-
nected with war, as well as the method
of carrying it on, were different ; there-
fore its events are of less use to us either
theoretically or practically ; in addition
to which military history, like every
other, naturally loses in the course of
time a number of small traits and linea-
ments originally to be seen, loses in

colour and life, like a worn out or dark-
ened picture ; so that perhaps at last
only the large masses and leading fea-
tures remain, which thus acquire undue
proportions.

If we look at the present state of war**
fare, we should say that the wars since
that of the Austrian succession are almost
the only ones which, at least as far as
armament, have still a considerable simi-
larity to the present, and which, notwith-
standing the many important changes
which have taken place both great and
small, are still capable of affording much
instruction. It is quite otherwise with
the war of the Spanish succession, as the
use of fire-arms had not then so far
advanced towards perfection, and cavalry
still continued the most important arm.
The farther we go back, the less useful
becomes military history, as it gets so
much the more meagre and barren ' of
detail. The most useless of all is that of
the old world.

But this uselessness is not altogether
absolute, it relates only to those subjects
which depend on a knowledge of minute
details, or on those things in which the
method of conducting war has changed.
Although we know very little about the
tactics in the battles between the Swiss
and the Austrians, the Burgundians and
French, still we find in them unmistake-
able evidence that they were the first in
which the superiority of a good infantry
over the best cavalry was displayed. A
general glance at the time of the Condot-
tieri teaches us how the whole method of
conducting war is dependant on the in-
strument used j for at no period have the
forces used in war had so much the cha-
racteristics of a special instrument, and
been a class so totally distinct from the
rest of the national community. The
memorable way in which the Bomans in
the second Punic War attacked the Car-
thaginian possessions in Spain and Africa,
while Hannibal stiU maintained himself
in Italy, is a most instructive subject to

84

ON WAR.

[book n.

Btudy, as the general relations of the
states and armieB concerned in this indi-
rect act of defence are sufficiently well
known.

But the more things descend into
particnlarsi and deviate in character
from the most general relations, the less
we can look for examples and lessons of
experience from yeiy remote periods, for
we have neither the means of judging
properly of corresponding events, nor can
we apply them to our completely different
method of war.

Unfortunately, however, it has always
been the fashion with historical writers
to talk about ancient times. We shall
not say how far vanity and charlatanism
may have had a share in this, but in
general we fail to discover any honest
intention and earnest endeavour to in-
struct and convince, and we can therefore

only look upon such quotations and re-
ferences as embellishments to fill up g^ps
and hide defects.

It would be an immense service to
teach the art of war entirely by historical
examples, as Fenqui^es proposed to do ;
but it would be full work for the whole
life of a man, if we reflect that he who
undertakes it must first qualify himself
for the task by a long personal experience
in actual war.

Whoever, stirred by ambition, under-
takes such a task, let him prepare him-
self for his pious undertaking as for a
long pilgrimage; let him give up his
time, spare no sacrifice, fear no temporal
rank or power, and rise above all feelings
of personal vanity, of false shame, in
order, according to the French code, to
speak the Truths the whole 2huhf and
nothing but the Ihith.

85

BOOK m - OF STRATEGY IN GENERAL.

CHAPTER I.

STRATEGY.

The conception of strategy has been
settled in the second chapter of the
second book. It is the employment of
the battle to gain the object of the war.
Properly speaking it has to do with no-
thing but the battle, but its theoiy must
include in this consideration the instru-
ment of this real activity — ^the armed
force-— in itself and in its principal rela-
tionsy for the battle is fought by it, and
shows its effects upon it in turn. It must
be well acquainted with the battle itself
as far as relates to its possible results,
and those mentcd and moral powers which
are the most important in the use of the
same.

Strategy is the employment of the
battle to gain the end of the war ; it must
therefore give an aim to the whole mili-
tary action, which must be in accord-
ance with the object of the war ; in other
words, strategy forms the plan of the
war, and to the said aim it links the
series of acts which are to lead to the
same, that is to say, it makes the plans
for the separate campaigns, and regu-
lates the combats to be fought in each.
As these are all things which to a great
extent can only be determined on conjec-
tures, some of which turn out incorrect,
while a number of other arrangements

pertaining to details cannot be made at
all beforehand, it follows, as a matter of
course, that strategy must go with the
army to the field in order to arrange par-
ticulars on the spot, and to ms&e the
modifications in the general plan which
incessantly become necessary in war.
Strategy can therefore never take its
hand Som the work for a moment.

That this however has not been always
the view taken, generally, is evident from
the former custom of keeping strategy in
the cabinet and not with the army, a
thing only allowable if the cabinet is so
near to the army that it can be taken for
the chief head-quarters of the army.

Theory will therefore attend on stra-
tegy in the determination of its plans, or,
as we may more properly say, it will
throw a light on things in themselves,
and in their relations to each other, and
bring out prominently the little that there
is of principle or rule.

If we recall to mind from the first
chapter how many things of the highest
importance war touches upon, we may
conceive that a consideration of aU re-
quires a rare grasp of mind.

A prince or general who knows exactly
how to organise his war according to his
object and means, who does neither too

86

ON WAR.

[book in.

little nor too much, gives by that the
greatest proof of his genius. But the
effects of this talent are exhibited not so
much by the invention of new modes of
action, which might strike the eye imme-
diately, as in the successful final result of
the whole. It is the exact fulfilment of
silent suppositions, it is the noiseless
harmony of the whole action which we
should admire, and which only makes
itself known in the total result.

The inquirer who, tracing back from
the final result, does not perceive the
signs of that harmony is one who is apt
to seek for genius where it is not, and
where it cannot be found.

The means and forms which strategy
uses are in fact so extremely simple, so
well known by their constant repetition,
that it only appears ridicidous to sound
conmion sense when it hears critics so
frequently speaking of them with high-
flown emphasis. Turning a flank, which
has been done a thousand times, is re-
garded here as a proof of the most bril-
liant genius, there as a proof of the most
profound penetration, indeed even of the
most comprehensive knowledge. Can
there be in the book-world more absurd
productions ?

It is stiU more ridiculous if, in addition
to this, we reflect that the same critic, in
accordance with prevalent opinion, ex-
cludes all moral forces from theory, and
will not allow it to be concerned with
anything but the material forces, so that
all must be confined to a few mathe-
matical relations of equilibrium and pre-
ponderance, of time and space, and a few
lines and angles. If it were nothing
more than this, then out of such a miser-
able business there would not be a scien-
tific problem for even a schoolboy.

But lot us admit: there is no question
here about scientific formulas and pro-
blems ; the relations of material things
are all very simple; the right compre-
hension of the moral forces which come
into play is more difficult. Still, even in

respect to them, it is only in the highest
branches of strategy that moral compli-
cations and a great diversity of quantities
and relations are to be looked for, only
at that point where strategy borders on
political science, or rather where the
two become one, and there, as we have
before observed, they have more influ-
ence on the **how much" and "how
little "is to be done than on the form
of execution. Where the latter is the
principal question, as in the single acts
both great and small in war, the moral
quantities are already reduced to a very
small number.

Thus, then, in strategy ever3rthing is
very simple, but not on &at account very
easy. Once it is determined from the
relations of the state what should and
may be done by war, then the way to it
is easy to find ; but to follow that way
straightforward, to carry out the plan
without being obliged to deviate from it
a thousand times by a thousand varying
influences, that requires, besides great
strength of character, great clearness and
steadiness of mind, and out of a thou-
sand men who are remarkable, some for
xnind, others for penetration, others again
for boldness or strength of will, perhaps
not one will combine in himself cdl those
qualities which are required to raise a
man above mediocrity in the career of a
general.

It may sound strange, but for all who
know war in this respect it is a fact
beyond doubt, that much more strength
of will is required to make eui impor-
tant decision in strategy than in tactics.
In the latter we are hurried on with
the moment ; a commander feels himself
borne along in a strong current, against
which he durst not contend without the
most destructive consequences, he sup-
presses the rising fears, and boldly ven-
tures further. In strategy, where all
goes on at a slower rate, there is more
room allowed for our own apprehen-
sions and those of others, for objections

GOAF. I.]

STRATEGY.

87

and remonstrances, consequently also for
nnseasonable regrets ; and as we do not
see things in strategy as we do at least
half of them in tactics, with the living
eye, but everything must be conjectured
and assumed, therefore the convictions
produced are less powerful. The conse*
quence is, that most generals when they
should act, remain stuck fast in bewilder-
ing doubts.

Now let us cast a glance at history-^
it lights upon Frederick the Ghreat's cam-
paign of 1760, celebrated for its fine
marches and manoeuvres : a perfect mas-
terpiece of strategic skill as critics tell
us. Is there really anything to drive us
out of our wits with admiration in the
king's first trying to turn Daun's right
flank, then his left, then again his right,
&c. ? Are we to see profound wisdom in
this ? No, that we cannot, if we are to
decide naturally and without affectation.
What we rather admire above all is the
sagacity of the king in this respect, that
while pursuing a great object with very
limited means, he tmdertook nothing be-
yond his powers, and jwi enough to gain
his object. This sagacity of the general
is visible not only in this campaign, but
throughout all the three wars of the
great king !

To bring Silesia into the safe harbour
of a well guaranteed peace, was his
object.

At the head of a small state, which
was like other states in most things, and
only ahead of them in some branches of
administration ; he could not be an Alex-
ander, and, as Charles XII., he would only
like him have broken his head. We find,
therefore, in the whole of his conduct
of war, a controlled power, always well
balanced, and never wanting in energy,
which in the most critical moments rises
to astonishing deeds, and the next mo-
ment oscillates quietly on again in subor-
dination to the play of the most subtil
political influences. Neither vanity,
thirst for gloiy, nor vengeance could

make him deviate from his course, and
this course alone it is which brought him
to a fortunate termination of the contest.

These few words do but scant justice
to this phase of the genius of the great
general ; the eyes must be fixed care-
fully on the extraordinary issue of the
struggle, and the causes which brought
about that issue must be traced out, in
order thoroughly to understand that
nothing but the king's penetrating
eye brought him safely out of all his
dangers.

This is one feature in this great com-
mander which we admire in the campaign
of 1760 — and in all others, but in this es-
pecially— because in none did he keep the
balance even against such a superior
hostile force, with such a small sacrifice.

Another feature relates to the difficulty
of execution. Marches to turn a flank,
right or lefb, are easily combined; the
idea of keeping a small force always well
concentrated to be able to meet the ene-
my on equal terms at any point, to mul-
tiply a force by rapid movement, is as
easily conceived as expressed ; the mere
contrivance in these points, therefore,
cannot excite our admiration, and with
respect to such simple things, there is
nothing further than to admit that they
are simple.

But let a general try to do these things
like Frederick the Qreat. Long after-
wards authors, who were eye witnesses,
have spoken of the danger, indeed of the
imprudence, of the king's camps, and
doubtless at the time he pitched them,
the danger appeared three times as great
as afterwards.

It was the same with his marches, un-
der the eyes, nay often under the cannon
of the enemy's army ; these camps were
taken up, these marches made not from
want of prudence, but because in Daun's
system, in his mode of drawing up his
army, in the responsibility which pressed
upon him, and in his character, Fre-
derick found that security which justi-

88

ON WAR.

[book ni.

fied his camps and marches. But it
required the king's boldness, determina^
tion, and strength of will to see things
in this light, and not to be led astray
and intimidated by the danger of which
thirty years after people still wrote and
spoke. Few generals in this situation
would have befieved these simple strate-
gic means to be practicable.

Again, another difficulty in execution
is that the king's army in this campaign
was constantly in motion. Twice it
marched by wretched cross roads, from
the Elbe into Silesia, in rear of Daun
and pursued by Lascy (beginning of
July, beginning of August). It required
to be always ready for battle, and its
marches to be organised with a degree
of skill which necessarily called forth a
proportionate degree of exertion. Al-
though attended and delayed by thou-
sands of wagons, still its subsistence was
extremely difficult. In Silesia for eight
days before the battle of Leignitz it had
constantly night marches, defiling alter-
nately right and left in front of the ene-
my:— this costs great fatigue, this re-
quires great privations.

Is it to be supposed that all this could
have been done without producing a
great friction in the machine ? Can the
mind of a commander elaborate such
movements with the same ease as the
hand of a land surveyor uses the astro-
labe ? Does not the sight of the suffer-
ings of their hungry, thirsty comrades
pierce the hearts of the commander and
his generals a thousand times? Must
not the murmurs and doubts which these
cause reach his ear? Has an ordinary
man the courage to demand such sacri-
fices, and would not such efforts most
certainly demoralise the army, break
up the bands of discipline, and, in
short, undermine its military virtue, if
firm reliance on the greatness and infal-
libility of the commander did not com-
pensate for aU? Here, therefore, it is
that we should pay respect ; it is these

miracles of execution which we should
admire. But it is impossible to realise all
this in its full force without a foretaste
of it by experience. He who only knows
war from books or the driLL ground can-
not realise the whole effect of this coun-
terpoise in action ; we beg him, there-
fore, to accept from us on faith and trust
all that he is unable to supply from any
personal experiences of his own.

We wished by this illustration to give
more clearness to the course of our ideas,
and in closing this chapter briefly observe
that in our exposition of strategy we shall
describe after our fashion those separate
subjects which appear to us the most im-
portant, whether of a moral or material
nature ; we shall proceed from the sim-
ple to the complex, and shall conclude
with the inner connection of the whole
act of war, in other words with the plan
for a war or campaign.

Observation.

In an earlier manuscript of the second
book are the following passages en-
dorsed by the author himself to he ueed
for the first Chapter of the second Book :
the projected revision of that chapter
not naving been made, the passages
referred to are introduced here in full.

By the mere assemblage of armed forces
at a particular point, a battle there be-
comes possible, but does not always take
place. Is that possibility now to be re-
garded as a reality and therefore an
effective thing? Certainly, it is so by
its results, and these effects, whatever
they may be, can never fail.

1. — Possible combats are on account of their
results to be looked upon as real ones.

If a detachment is sent away to cut
off the retreat of a fljring enemy, and the
enemy surrenders in consequence without
further resistance, still it is through the

CHAP. I.]

STRATEOT.

89

combat which is offered to him by this
detachment sent after him that he is
brought to his decision.

If a part of otir army occupies an
enemy's province which was undefended,
and thus deprives the enemy of veiy
considerable means of keeping up the
strength of his army, it is entirely through
the battle which our detached corps gives
the enemy to expect, in case he seeks to
recover the lost province, that we remain
in possession of the same.

In both cases therefore, the mere
possibility of a battle has produced
results, and is therefore to be classed
amongst actual events. Suppose that in
these cases the enemy has opposed our
corps with others superior in force, and
thus forced ours to give up their object
without a combat, then certainly our
plan has failed, but the battle which we
offered at (either of) those points has
not on that account been without effect,
for it attracted the enemy's forces to that
point. And in case our whole under-
taking has done us harm, it cannot be
said that these positions, these possible
battles, have been attended with no re-
sults; their effects, then, are similar to
those of a lost battle.

In this manner we see that the de-
struction of the enemy's military forces,
the overthrow of the enemy's power, is
only to be done through the effect of a
battle whether it be that it actually takes
place, or that it is merely offered, and
not accepted.

2. — TuoofoU ohjeet of the eomhat

But these effects are of two kinds, direct
and indirect ; they are of the latter, if other
things intrude themselves, and become
the object of the combat — things which
cannot be regarded as the destruction of
enemy's force, but only leading up to it
certainly by circuitous road, but with
so much the greater effect. The posses-
sion of provinces, towns, fortresses, roads,

bridges, magazines, &c., may be the m-
mediaU object of a battle, but never the
ultimate one. Things of this description
can never be looked upon otherwise than
as means of gaining greater superiority,
so as at last to offer battle to the enemy
in such a way that it will be impossible
for him to accept it. Therefore all these
things must only be regarded as inter-
mediate links, steps as it were, leading
up to the effectual principle, but never as
that principle itself.

8. — Example,

In 1814 by the capture of Buonaparte's
capital the object of the war was attained.
The political divisions which had their
roots in Paris came into active operation,
and an enormous split left the power of
the Emperor to collapse of itself. Never-
theless the point of view from which we
must look at all this is, that through these
causes the forces and defensive means of
Buonaparte were suddenly very much
diminished, the superiority of the Allies,
therefore, just in the same measure in-
creased, and any further resistance then
became impomble. It was this impos-
sibility which produced the peace with
France. If we suppose the forces of the
Allies at that moment diminished to a
like extent through external causes; — if
the superiority vanishes, then at the same
time vanishes also all the effect and
importance of the taking of Paris.

We have gone through this chain of
argument in order to show that this is the
natural and only true view of the thing
from which it derives its importance.
It leads always back to the question,
What at any given moment of the war
or campaign will be the probable result
of the great or small combats which the
two sides might offer to each other ? In
the consideration of a plan for a campaign
or war, this question only ia decisive aa
to the measures which are to be taken
all through from the very commencement.

90

ON WAR.

[book in.

4. — When this view is not taken, then a false
value is given to other things.

If we do not accustom ourselves to look
upon war, and the single campaigns in a
war, as a chain which is all composed of
batdes strung together, one of which
always brings on another; if we adopt
the idea that the taking of a certain
geographical point, the occupation of an
undefended province, is in itself anything;
then we are very likely to regard it as
an acquisition which we may retain; and
if we look at it so, and not as a term in
the whole series of events, we do not ask
ourselves whether this possession may
not lead to greater disadvantages here-
after. How often we find this mistake
recurring in military history.

We might say that, just as in commerce

the merchant cannot set apart and place
in security gains from one single trans-
action by itself, so in war a single ad-
vantage cannot be separated from the
result of the whole. Just as the former
must always operate with the whole bidk
of his means, just so in war, only the
sum total will decide on the advantage or
disadvantage of each item.

If the mind's eye is always directed
upon the series of combats, so far as they
can be seen beforehand, then it is always
looking in the right direction to the aim,
and thereby the motion of the force
acquires that rapidity, that is to say,
willing and doing acquire that energy
which is suitable to the matter, and which
is not to be thwarted or turned aside by
extraneous influences.

CHAPTER II.

ELEMENTS OF STRATEGY.

Thb causes which condition the use of
the combat in strategy, may be easily
divided into elements of different kinds,
such as the moral, physical, mathematical,
geographical and statistical elements.

The first class includes all that can be
called forth by moral qualities and effects ;
to the second class belong the whole
mass of the military force, its organisa-
tion, the proportion of the three arms,
etc., etc. ; to the third class, the angle of
the operations' line, the concentric and
eccentric movements in as far as their
geometrical nature has any value in the
calculation; to the fourth the influences of
country, as commanding points, hills,
rivers, woods, roads, etc., etc. ; lastly to
the fifth, all the means of supply, etc..

etc. The separation of these things once
for all in the mind does good in giving
clearness to the ideas of things, and help-
ing us to estimate at once, at a higher or
lower value, the different classes as we
pass onwards. For, in considering them
separately, many lose of themselves their
borrowed importance ; one feels, for in-
stance, quite plainly that the value of a
base of operations, even if we look at
nothing in it but the position of the line
of operations, depends much less in that
simple form on the geometrical element
of the angle which they form with one
another, than on the nature of the roads
and the country through which they
pass.
But to treat upon strategy according

CHAP, in.]

MORAL FORCES.

91

to these elements would be the most un-
fortunate idea that could be oonceivedy
for these elements are generally mani*
fold, and intimatelj connected with each
other in everj single operation of war.
We should lose ourselTes in the most
soulless analysis, and as if in a horrid
dream, we should be for ever trying in
vain to build up an axch to connect this
base of abstractions with feu^ts belonging

to the real world. Heaven preserve every
theorist from such an undertaking ! We
shall keep to the world of things in their
totality, and not pursue our analysis fur-
ther than is necessary from time to time
to give distinctness to the idea which we
wish to impart, and which has come to
us, not by a speculative investigation,
but through the impression made by the
realities of war in their entirety.

CHAPTER III.

MORAL FORCES.

We must return again to this subject,
which is touched upon in the third chap-
ter of the second book (p. 62), because the
moral forces are amongst the most impor-
tant subjects in war. They are the spirits
which permeate the whole element of
war, and which fasten themselves soonest
and with the greatest affinity to the will
which puts in motion and glides the
whole mass of powers, unite with it as it
were in one stream, because it is a moral
force itself. Unfortunately they seek
to escape from all book-knowledge, for
they will neither be brought into num-
bers nor into classes, and want only to
be seen and felt.

The spirit and other moral qualities
which animate an army, a general, or
governments, public opinion in provinces
in which a war is raging, the moral effect
of a victoiy or of a defeat, are things
which in themselves vary very much in
their nature, and which also, according
as they stand with regard to our object
and our relations, may have an influence
in different ways.

Although little or nothing can be
said about these things in books, still

they belong to the theoiy of the art of
war, as well as everything else which
constitutes war. For I must here once
more repeat that it is a miserable philo-
sophy if, according to the old plan, we
establish rules and principles wholly re-
gardless of all moral forces, and then, as
soon as these forces make their appear-
ance, we begin to coimt exceptions which
we thereby establish as it were theoreti-
cally, that is, make into rules ; or if we
resort to an appeal to genius, which is
above all rules, thus giving out by impli-
cation, not only that rules were only
made for fools, but also that they them-
selves are no better than folly.

Even if the theory of the art of war
does no more in reaUty than that it calls
these things to remembrance, shows the
necessity of allowing to the moral forces
their fuU value, and of always taking
them into consideration, then it has in
fact extended its borders over the region
of immaterial forces, and by establishing
that point of view, has condemned before-
hand every one who would endeavour to
justify himseK before its judgment seat
by the mere physical relations of forces.

93

ON WAR.

[book m.

But also out of regard to all other so-
called rules, theory cannot banish the
moral forces beyond its frontier, because
the effects of the physical forces and the
moral are completely fused, and are not
to be decomposed like a metal alloy by a
chemical process. In CTery rule relating
to the physical forces, theoxy must pre-
sent to the mind at the same time the
share which the moral powers will haye
in it, if it would not be led to categorical
propositions, at one time too timid and
contracted, at another too dogmatical and
wide. Even the most matter of fact
theories have, without knowing it, strayed
oyer into this moral kingdom ; for, as an
example, the effects of a yictory cannot
in any way be explained without taking
into consideration the moral impressions.
And therefore the most of the subjects
which we shall go through in this book
are composed half of physical, half of
moral causes and effects, and we might
say the physical are almost no more than
the wooden handle, whilst the moral are
the noble metal, the real bright-polished
weapon.

The yalue of the moral powers, and

their frequently Incredible influence, are
best exemplified by histoxy, and tlds is
the most generous and purest nourish-
ment which the mind of the general can
extract from it.— At the same time it is
to be obseryed, that it is less demonstra-
tions, critical examinations, and learned
treatises, than sentiments, general im-
pressions, and single flashing sparks of
truth, which yield the seeds of know-
ledge that are to fertilise the mind.

We might go through the most im-
portant moral phenomena in war, and
with all the care of a diligent professor
try what we could impart about each,
either g^od or bad. But as in such a
method one slides too much into the
common place and trite, whilst real
mind quickly makes its escape in anidy-
sis, the end is that one gets imperceptibly
to the relation of things which eyerybody
knows. We prefer, therefor^, to remain
here more than usually incomplete and
rhapsodical, content to haye drawn at-
tention to the importance of the subject
in a general way, and to haye pointed
out the spirit in which the yiews giyen
in this book haye been conceiyed.

CHAPTER IV.

THE CHIEF MORAL POWERS.

They are The Talents of the Commander;
The Military Virtue of the Army ; Its iVV-
tional feeliny. Which of these is the most
important no one can tell in a general
way, for it is yery diflicult to say any-
thing in general of their strength, and
still more difficult to compare the strength
of one with that of another. The best
plan is not to undervalue any of them, a
fault which human judgment is prone to

sometimes on one side, sometimes on
another, in its whimsical osciUations. It
is better to satisfy ourselyes of the un-
deniable efficacy of these three things
by sufficient eyidence from history.

It is true, however, that in modem
times the armies of European states have
got very much to a par as regards disci-
pline and fitness for service, and that
the conduct of war has-^as philoso-

CHAP. IV.]

TRE CHIEF MORAL POWERS.

93

pliers would say — so naturally deve-
loped itself, thereby become a method,
common as it were to all armies, that
even from commanders there is nothing
further to be expected in the way of ap-
plication of special means of art, in the
limited sense (such as Frederidk the
Second's oblique order). Consequently
it cannot be denied that, as matters now
stand, there is so much the greater scope
afforded for the influence of National
spirit and habituation of an aiiny to war.
A long peace may alter again all this.

The national spirit of an army (enthu-
siasm, fanatical zeal, faith, opinion,) dis-
plays itself most in mountain warfare,
where eveiy one down to the common

soldier is left to himself. On this account,
a mountainous country is the best cam-
paigning ground for a people in arms.

Expertness of an army through train-
ing, and that well tempered courage
wiuich holds the ranks together as if they
had been cast in a mould, show their su-
periority in an open country.

The talent of a general has most room
to display itself in a closely intersected,
undulating country. In mountains he
has too little command over the separate
parts, aud the direction of all is beyond
his powers ; in open plains it is simple
and does not exceed those powers.

According to these imdeniable elective
affinities, plans should be regulated.

CHAPTER V.

MILITARY VIRTUE OF AN ARMY.

This is distinguished from mere bravery,
and still more from enthusiasm for the
business of war. The flrst is certainly a
necessary constituent part of it, but in the
same way as bravery, which is a natural
gift in some men, may arise in a soldier
as a part of an army from habit and cus-
tom, so with him it must also have a
different direction from that which it has
with others. It must lose that impulse to
unbridled activity and exercise of force
which is its characteristic in the indi-
vidual, and submit itseK to demands of
a higher kind, to obedience, order, rule,
and method. Enthusiasm for the pro-
fession gives life and greater Are to the
military virtue of an army, but does not
necessarily constitute a part of it.

War is a special business (and however
general its relations may be, and even
if all the male population of a country,

capable of bearing arms, exercise this
calling, still it always continues to
be), different and separate from the
other pursuits which occupy the life of
man. — To be imbued with a sense of the
spirit and nature of this business, to
make use of, to rouse, to assimilate into
the system the powers which should be
active in it, to penetrate completely
into the nature of the business with the
understanding, through exercise to gain
confidence and expertness in it, to be
completely given up to it, to pass out of
the man into the part which it is assigned
to us to play in war, that is the military
virtue of an army in the individual.

However much pains may be taken to
combine the soldier and the citizen in
one and the same individual, whatever
may be done to nationalise wars, and
however much we may imagine times

94

ON JFAJi.

[book in.

haye clianged since the days of the old
Condottieri, never will it be possible to
do away with the individuality of the
business ; and if that cannot be done, then
those who belong to it, as long as they
belong to it, will always look upon them-
selves as a kind of guild, in the regula-
tions, laws and customs of which the
spirits of war fix themselves by prefer-
ence. And so it is in fact. Even with the
most decided inclination to look at war
from the highest point of view,, it would
be very wrong to look down upon this cor-
porate spirit {esprit de corps) which may
and should exist more or less in every
army. This corporate spirit forms the
bond of union between the natural forces
which are active in that which we have
called military virtue. The crystals of
military virtue have a greater affinity for
the spirit of a corporate body than for
anytlung else.

An army which preserves its usual
formations under the heaviest fire,
which is never shaken by imaginary
fears, and in the face of real danger dis-
putes the ground inch by inch, which,
proud in the feeling of its victories, never
loses its sense of obedience, its respect
for and confidence in its leaders, even
under the depressing effects of defeat;
an army with all its physical powers, in-
ured to privations and fatigue by exercise,
like the muscles of an athlete ; an army
which looks upon all its toils as the
means to victory, not as a curse which
hovers over its standards, and which is
always reminded of its duties and virtues
by the short catechism of one idea, namely
the honow of its arms ; — Such an army is
imbued with the true military spirit.

Soldiers may fight bravely like the
Yend^ans, and do great things like the
Swiss, the Americans, or Spaniards,
without displaying this military virtue.
A commander may also be successful at
the head of standing armies, like Eugene
and Marlborough, without enjoying the
benefit of its assistance; we must not,

therefore, say that a successful war with-
out it cannot be imagined ; and we draw
especial attention to that point, in order
the more to individualise the conception
which is here brought forward, that the
idea may not dissolve into a generalisa-
tion, and that it may not be thought
that military virtue is in the end every
thing. It is not so. Military virtue in
an army is a definite moral power which
may be supposed wanting, and the in-
fluence of which may therefore be esti-
mated— like any instrument the power of
which may be calculated.

Having thus characterised it, we pro-
ceed to consider what can be predicated
of its influence, and what are the means
of gaining its assistance.

Military virtue is for the parts, what
the genius of the commander is for the
whole. The general can only guide the
whole, not each separate part, and where
he cannot guide the part, there military
virtue must be its leader. A general is
chosen by the reputation of his superior
tcdents, the chief leaders of large masses
after careful probation ; but this proba-
tion diminishes as we descend the scale
of rank, and in just the same measure
we may reckon less and less upon indi-
vidual talents ; but what is wanting iu
this respect military virtue should supply.
The natural qualities of a warlike people
play jiist this part: bravery^ aptitude,
powers of endurance and enthusiasm.

These properties may therefore supply
the place of military virtue, and vice versa,
from which the following may be de-
duced :

1. Military virtue is a quality of stand-
ing armies only, but they require it the
most. In national risings and wars, its
place is supplied by natural qualities,
which develop themselves there more
rapidly.

2. Standing armies opposed to stand-
ing armies, can more easily dispense with
it, than a standing army opposed to a
national insurrection, for in that case, the

OHAP. v.]

MILITARY VIRTUE OF AN ARMY.

95

troops are more scattered, and the di-
visions left more to themselves. But where
an army can be kept concentrated, the
genius of the general takes a greater
place, and supplies what is wanting in
the spirit of the army. Therefore gene-
rally military virtue becomes more neces-
sary the more the theatre of operations
and other circumstances make the war
complicated, and cause the forces to be
scattered.

From these truths the only lesson to
be derived is this, that if an army is
deficient in this quality, eveiy endeavour
should be made to simplify the opera-
tions of the war as much as possible, or
to introduce double efficiency in the orga-
nisation of the army in some other re-
spect, and not to expect from the mere
name of a standing army, what only the
veritable thing can give.

The military virtue of an army is there-
fore, one of tiie most important moral
powers in war, and where it is wanting,
we either see its place supplied by one
of the others, such as the great supe-
riority of generalship, or popular en-
thusiasm, or we find the results not com-
mensurate with the exertions made. — How
much that is great, this spirit, this sterling
worth of an army, this refining of ore
into the polished metal, has abeady done,
we see in the history of the Macedonians
under Alexander, the Boman legions
under Cesar, the Spanish infantry under
Alexander Famese, the Swedes under
Gustavus Adolphus and Charles XII.,
the Prussians under Frederick the Great,
and the French under Buonaparte. We
must purposely shut our eyes against
all historical proof, if we do not admit,
that the astonishing successes of these
generals* and their greatness in situations
of extreme difficidty, were only possible
with armies possessing this virtue.

This spirit can only be generated from
two sources, and only by these two con-
jointly : the first is a succession of wars
and great victories; the other is, an
activity of the army carried sometimes to

the highest pitch. Only by these, does
the soldier leam to know his powers.
The more a general is in the habit of
demanding from his troops, the surer
he is, that his demands will be answered.
The soldier is as proud of overcoming
toil, as he is of surmoimting danger.
Therefore it is only in the soil of incessant
activity and exertion that the germ wiU
thrive, but also only in the sunshine
of victory. Once it becomes a strong tree,
it will stand against the fiercest storms
of misfortime and defeat, and even
against the indolent inactivity of peace,
at least for a time. It can therefore only
be created in war, and imder great
generals, but no doubt it may last at
least for several generations, even under
generals of moderate capacity, and
through considerable periods of peace.

With this generous and noble spirit
of tmion in a line of veteran troops,
covered with scars and thoroughly inured
to war, we must not compare the self
esteem and vanity of a standing army,
held together merely by the glue of ser-
vice-regulations and a drill book; a
certain plodding earnestness and slrict
discipline may keep up military virtue
for a long time, but can never create
it; these things therefore have a cer-
tain value, but must not be over-rated.
Order, smartness, good will, also a certain
degree of pride and high feeling, are qua-
lities of an army formed in time of peace
which are to be prized, but cannot stand
alone. The whole retains the whole, and
as with glass too quickly cooled, a single
crack breaks the wholomass. Above all,
the highest spirit in the world changes
only too easily at the first check into de-
pression, and one might say into a kind of
rhodomontade of alarm, the French sauve
que peut, — Such an army can only achieve
something through its leader, never by
itself. It must be led with double caution,
until by degrees, in victory and hardships,
the strength grows into the full armour.
Beware then of confusing the spirit of an
army with its temper.

96

ON WAR.

[book ni.

CHAPTER VI.

BOLDNESS.

The place and part wluch boldness takes
in the dynamic system of powers, where
it stands opposite to Foresight and pru-
dence, has been stated in the chapter on
the certainty of the result, in order thereby
to show, that theory has no right to
restrict it by virtue of its legislative
power.

But this noble impulse, with which the
human soul raises itself above the most
formidable dangers, is to be regarded as
an active principle peculiarly belonging to
war. In fact, in what branch of human
activity should boldness have a right of
citizenship if not in war ?

From the train-driver and the drum-
mer up to the general, it is the noblest
of virtues, the true steel which gives the
weapon its edge and briUiancy.

Let us admit in fact it has in war even
its own prerogatives. Over and above
the result of the calculation of space,
time, and quantity, we must allow a cer-
tain per-centage which boldness derives
iioni the weakness of others, whenever it
gains the mastery. It is therefore, vir-
tually, a creative power. This is not
difficult to demonstrate philosophically.
As often as boldness encounters hesita-
tion, the probability of the result is of
necessity in its favour, because the very
state of hesitation implies a loss of equi-
librium already. It is only when it
encounters cautious foresight — which we
may say is just as bold, at all events just
as strong and powerful as itseK — that
it is at a disadvantage ; such cases, how-
ever, rarely occur. Out of the whole
multitude of prudent men in the world,
the great majority are so from timidity.

Amongst large masses, boldness is a
force, the special cultivation o£. which can
never be to the detriment of other forces,
because the great mass is bound to a
higher will by the frame- work and joints
of the order of battle and of the service,
and therefore is guided by an intelligent
power which is extraneous. Boldness is
therefore here only like a spring held
down until its action is required.

The higher the rank the more neces-
sary it is that boldness should be accom-
panied by a reflective mind, that it may
not be a mere blind outburst of passion
to no purpose ; for with increase of rank
it becomes always less a matter of self-
sacriflce and more a matter of the preser-
vation of others, and the good of the
whole. Where regulations of the service
as a kind of second nature prescidbe for
the masses, reflection mu^t be the guide
of the general, and in his case individual
boldness in action may easily become a
fault. Still, at the same time, it is a
flne failing, and must not be looked at
in the same light as any other. Happy
the army in which an untimely boldness
frequently manifests itself ; it is an exu-
berant growth which shows a rich soil.
Even foolhardiness, that is boldness with-
out an object, is not to be despised ; in
point of fact it is the same energy of
feeling, only exercised as a kind of pas-
sion without any co-operation of the in-
telligent faculties. It is only when it
strikes at the root of obedience, when it
treats with contempt the orders of supe-
rior authority, that it must be repressed
as a dangerous evil, not on its own ac-
count but on account of the act of disobe-

CHAP. VI.]

OF B0LDNE88 IN WAR.

97

dienoe, for there is nothing in war which
is of greater imporianee than obedience.

The reader will readily agree with us
that, supposing an equal degree of dis-
cernment to be forthcoming in a certain
number of cases, a thousand times as
many of them will end in disaster through
over-anxiety as through boldness.

One would suppose it natural that the
interposition of a reasonable object
should stimidate boldness, and therefore
lessen its intrinsic merit, and yet the
reverse is the case in reality.

The intervention of lucid thought or
the general supremacy of mind deprives
the emotional forces of a great part of
their power. On that account boldness
becomes of rarer occurrence the higher we
ascend the scale ofranky for whether the dis-
cernment and the understanding do or
do not increase with these ranks still the
conmianders, in their several stations as
they rise, become pressed more and more
severely by objective things, by relations
and claims from without, so that they
become the more perplexed the lower
the degree of their individual intelli-
gence. This so far as regards war is
the chief foimdation of the truth of the
French proverb : —

" Tel brille an aeoond qui s' Eclipse au premier."

Almost all the generals who are repre-
sented in history as merely having at-
tained to mediocrity, and as wanting in
decision when in supreme command, are
men celebrated in their antecedent career
for their boldness and decision.

In those motives to bold action which
arise from the pressure of necessity we
must make a distinction. Necessity has
its degrees of intensity. If it lies near at
hand, if the person acting is in the pur-
suit of his object driven into great dan-
gers in order to escape others equally
great, then we can only admire his reso-
lution, which still has also its value. If
a young man to show his skill in horse-
manship leaps across a deep clift, then

he is bold ; if he makes the same leap
pursued by a troop of head-chopping
Janissaries he is only resolute. But the
farther off the necessity from the point
of action, the greater the number of rela-
tions intervening which the mind has to
traverse in order to realise them, by so
much the lees does necessity take from
boldness in action* If Frederick the
Great, in the year 1756, saw that war
was inevitable, and that he could only
escape destruction by being beforehand
with his enemies, it became necessary for
him to commence the war himself, but at
the same time it was certainly very bold :
for few men in his position would have
made up their minds to do so.

Although strategy is only the province
of generals in chief or commanders in
the higher positions, still boldness in
all the other branches of an army is
as little a matter of indifference to it as
their other military virtues. With an
army belonging to a bold race, and in
which the spirit of boldness has been
always nourished, very different things
may be undertaken than with one in
which this virtue is unknown ; for that
reason we have considered it in connec-
tion with an army. But our subject is
specially the boldness of the general,
and yet we have not much to say about
it after having described this military
virtue in a general way to the best of
our ability.

The higher we rise in a position of
command, the more do the mind, under-
standing, and penetration predominate
in activity, the more therefore is boldness,
which is a property of the feelings, kept
in subjection, and for that reason we find
it so rarely in the highest positions, but
also then so much the more to be admired.
Boldness, directed by an overruling in-
telligence, is the stamp of the hero : this
boldness does not consist in venturing
directly against the nature of things, in a
downright contempt of the laws of pro-
bability, but, if a choice is once made, in

u

98

ON WAR,

[book in.

tlie rigorous adherence to that higher
calculation which genius, the tact of
judgment, has gone over in the speed
of lightning, and only half consciously.
The more boldness lends wings to the
mind and the discernment, so much the
farther they will reach in their flight, so
much the more comprehensive will be the
Tiew, the more exact the result, but cer-
tainly always only in the sense that with
gpreater objects greater dangers are con-
nected. The ordinary man, not to speak
of the weak and irresolute, arrives at an
exact residt so far as such is possible
without ocular demonstration, at most
after diligent reflection in his chamber,
at a distance from danger and responsi-
bility. Let danger and responsibility draw
close round him in every direction, then
he loses the power of comprehensive
vision, and if he retains this in any mea-
sure by the influence of others, still he
will lose his power of decision, because
there no one can help him.

We think then that it is impossible to
imagine a distinguished general without
boldness, that is to say, that no man can
become such who is not bom with this
power of the soul, and we therefore look
upon it as the flrst requisite for such a ca-
reer. How much of this inborn power,
developed and moderated through educa-
tion and the circumstances of life, is left
when the man has attained a high posi-
tion, is the second question. The greater
this power still is, the stronger will

genius be on the wing, the higher will
be its flight. The risks become always
greater, but the aim grows with them.
Whether its lines proceed out of and get
their direction from a distant necessity,
or whether they converge to the keystone
of a building which ambition has planned,
whether Frederick or Alexander acts, is
much the same as regards the critical
view. If the one excites the imagina-
tion more because it is bolder, the other
pleases the understanding most, because
it has in it more absolute necessity.

We have still to advert to one very
important circumstance.

The spirit of boldness can exist in aa
army, either because it is in the people,
or because it has been generated in a
successful war conducted by able gene-
rals. In such case it must of course be
dispensed with at the commencement.

Now in our days there is hardly any
other means of educating the spirit of a
people in this respect, except by war, and
that too under bold generals. By it alone
can that efleminacy of feeling be coun-
teracted, that propensity to seek for the
enjoyment of comfort, which cause de-
generacy in a people rising in prosperity
and immersed in an extremely busy com-
merce.

A nation can hope to have a strong^
position in the political world only if its
character and practice in actual war mu-
tually support each other in constant
reciprocal action.

CHAP, vn.]

PERSEVERANCE.

99

CHAPTER VII.

PERSEVERANCE.

The reader expects to hear of angles and
lines, and finds, instead of these citizens
of the scientific world, only people out of
common life, such as he meets with every
day in the street. And yet the author
cannot make up his mind to become a
hair's breadth more mathematical than
the subject seems to him to require, and
he is not alarmed at the surprise which
the reader may show.

In war more than anywhere else in
the world things happen differently to
what we had expected, and look diffe-
rently when near, to what they did at a
distance. "With what serenity the archi-
tect can watch his work gradually rising
and growing into his plan. The doctor,
although much more at the mercy of
mysterious agencies and chances than
the architect, still knows enough of the
forms and effects of his means. In war,
on the other hand, the commander of an
immense whole finds himself in a con-
stant whirlpool of false and true informa-
tion, of mistakes committed through fear,
through negligence, through precipita-
tion, of contraventions of his authority,
either from mistaken or correct motives,

from HI will, true or false sense of
duty, indolence or exhaustion, of acci-
dents which no mortal could have for-
seen. In short, he is the victim of a
hundred thousand impressions, of which
the most have an intimidating, the fewest
an encouraging tendency. By long ex-
perience in war, the tact is acquired of
readily appreciating the value of these
incidents; high courage and stability
of character stand proof against them,
as the rock resists the beating of the
waves. He who would yield to these
impressions would never carry out an
undertaking, and on that account per-
severance in the proposed object, as long
as there is no decided reason against
it, is a most necessary counterpoise.
Further, there is hardly any celebrated
enterprise in war which was not achieved
by endless exertion, pains, and priva-
tions ; and as here the weakness of the
physical and moral man is ever dis-
posed to yield, therefore only an immense
force of will which manifests itself in
perseverance, admired by present and
future generations, can conduct us to the
aim.

100

ON WAR

[book III.

CHAPTER VIII.

SUPERIORITY OF NUMBERS.

This is in tactics, as weU as in strategy,
the most general principle of victory, and
shall be examined by us first in its gene-
rality, for which we may be permitted
the following exposition :

Strategy fixes the point where, the
time when, and the numerical force with
which the battle is to be fought. By this
triple determination it has therefore a
very essential influence on the issue of the
combat. If tactics has fought the battle,
if the result is over, let it be victory or
defeat, strategy makes such use of it as
can be made in accordance with the great
object of the war. This object of the
war is naturally often a very distant one,
seldom does it lie quite close at hand. A.
series of other objects subordinate them-
selves to it as means. These objects,
which are at the same time means to a
higher object, may be practically of vari-
ous kinds ; even the ultimate aim of the
whole war is a different one in every war.
We shall make ourselves acquainted with
these things according as we become
acquainted with the separate objects
which they come in contact with ; and it
is not our intention here to embrace the
whole subject by a complete enumeration
of them, even if that were possible. We
therefore let the employment of the
battle stand over for the present.

Even those things through which stra-
tegy has an influence on the issue of the
combat, inasmuch as it establishes the
same, to a certain extent decrees them,
ai*e not so simple that they can be em-
braced in one single view For as strategy
appoints time, place and force, it can do
so in practice in many ways, each of

which influences in a different manner
the result of the combat as well as its
consequences. Therefore we shaU only
get acquainted with this also by degrees,
that is, through the subjects which de-
termine more closely the application.

If we strip the combat of all modifica-
tions which it may undergo according to
its immediate purpose and the circum-
stances from which it proceeds, lastly if
we set aside the valour of the troops,
because that is a given quantity, then
there remains only the bare conception
of the combat, that is a combat without
form, in which we distinguish nothing
but the number of the combatants.

This number will therefore determine
victory. Now from the number of things
above deducted to get to this point, it ia
shown that the superiority in numbers
in a battle is only one of the factors
employed to produce victory ; that there-
fore so far from having with the supe-
riority in number obtained all, or even
only the principal thing, we have perhaps
got very little by it, according as the other
circumstances which co-operate happen
to be so, or so.

But this superiority has degrees, it
it may be imagined, twofold, threefold
or four times as many, etc., etc., and every
one sees, that by increasing in this way,
it must (at last) overpower everything
else.

In such an aspect we grant, that the
superiority in numbers is the most im-
portant factor in the result of a combat,
only it must be sufficiently great to be a
counterpoise to all the other co-operating
circumstances. The direct result of this

CHAP, vin*.]

SUPERIORITY OF NUMBERS,

101

ifl, that the greatest possible number of
troops should be brought into action at
the decisive point.

Whether the troops thus brought are
sufficient or not, we have then done in
this respect all that our means allowed.
This is the first principle in strategy,
therefore in general as now stated, it is
just as well suited for Greeks and Persians,
or for Englishmen and Mahrattas, as for
French and Germans. But we shall take
a glance at our relations in Europe, as
respects war, in order to arrive at some
more definite idea on this subject.

Here we find armies much more like one
another in equipment, organisation, and
practical skill of every kind. There only
remains still alternately a difference in
the military virtue of armies, and in the
talent of generals. If we go through the
military history of modem Europe, we
find no example of a Marathon.

Frederick the Great beat 80,000
Austrians at Leuthen with about 30,000
men, and at Bosbach with 25,000 some
60,000 allies; these are however the
only instances of victories gained against
an enemy double, or more than double
in numbers. Charles XII., in the battle
of Narva, we cannot weU quote, the
Bussians were at that time hardly to be
regarded as Europeans, also the prin-
cipal circumstances even of the battle,
are but too little known. Buonaparte
had at Dresden 120,000 against 220,000,
therefore not the double. At CoUin,
Frederick the Great did not succeed, with
30,000 against 50,000 Austrians, neither
Buonaparte in the desperate battle of
Leipsic, where he was 160,000 strong,
against 280,000, the superiority therefore
considerably less than double.

From this we may infer, that it is very
difficult in the present state of Europe,
for the most talented general to gain a
victory over an enemy double his strength.
Now if we see double numbers, such a
weight in the scale against the greatest
generals, we may be sure, that in ordinary

cases, in small as well as great combats,
an important superiority of numbers, but
which need not be over two to one, will
be sufficient to ensure the victory, how-
ever disadvantageous other circumstances
may be. Certainly, we may imagine a
defile which even tenfold would not suf-
fice to force, but in such a case it can be
no question of a battle at all.

We think therefore, that exactly in
our relations, as well as in all similar
ones, the superiority at the decisive point
is a matter of capital importance, and
that this subject, in the generality of
cases, is decidedly the most important of
all. The strength at the decisive point
depends on the absolute strength of the
army, and on skill in making use of it.

The first rule is therefore to enter the
field with an army as strong as possible.
This sounds very like a common place,
but still is really not so.

In order to show that for a long time
the strength of forces was by no means
regarded as a chief point, we need only
observe, that in most, and even in the
most detailed histories of the wars, in
the eighteenth century, the strength of
the armies is either not given at all,
or only incidentally, and in no case is
any special value laid upon it. Tem-
pelhof in his history of the Seven Years'
War is the earliest writer who gives
it regularly, but at the same time he
does it only very superficially.

Even Massenbach, in his manifold
critical observations on the Prussian
campaigns of 1 793-94 in the Yosges, talks
a great deal about hills and valleys,
roads and footpaths, but does not say a
syllable about mutual strength.

Another proof lies in a wonderful
notion which haunted the heads of many
critical historians, according to which
there was a certain size of an army
which was the best, a normal strength,
beyond which the forces in excess were
burdensome rather then serviceable.*

* Tempelhof and Montalembert are the first wo

102

ON WAE.

[book ni.

Lastly, there are a number of instances
to be found, in which all the available
forces were not really brought into the
battle, or into the war, because the
superiority of numbers was not considered
to have that importance which in the
nature of things belongs to it.

If we are tiboroughly penetrated with
the conyiction that with a considerable
superiority of numbers everything pos-
sible is to be effected, then it cannot fail
that this dear conviction reacts on the
preparations for the war, so as to make us
appear in the field with as many troops
as possible, and either to give us our-
selves the superiority, or at least to guard
against the enemy obtaining it. So much
for what concerns the absolute force with
which the war is to be conducted.

The measure of this absolute force is
determined by the government; and
although with this determination the real
action of war commences, and it forms
an essential part of the strategy of the
war, still in most cases the general
who is to command these forces in the
war must regard their absolute strength
as a given quantity, whether it be that
he has had no voice in fiscing it, or that
circumstances prevented a sufficient ex-
pansion being given to it.

There remains nothing, therefore, where
an absolute superiority is not attainable,
but to produce a relative one at the
decisive point, by making skilful use of
what we have.

The calculation of space and time ap-
pears as the most essential thing to this
end, and this has caused that subject to
be regarded as one which embraces nearly
the whole art of using military forces.
Indeed, some have gone so far as to ascribe
to great strategists and tacticians a mental
organ peculiarly adapted to this point.

But the calculation of time and space,

recollect as examples — the first in a passage of his
first part, page 148 ; the other in his correspondence
relative to the plan of opemtions of the Russians in
1759.

although it lies imiversally at the founda-
tion of strategy, and is to a certain extent
its daily bread, is still neither«the most
difficult, nor the most decisive one.

If we take an imprejudiced glance at
military history, we shall find that the
instances in which mistakes in such a cal-
culation have proved the cause of serious
losses are very rare, at least in strategy.
But if the conception of a skilful com-
bination of time and space is fully to
account for every instance of a resolute
and active commander beating several
separate opponents with one and the
same army (Frederick the Great, Buo-
naparte), then we perplex ourselves un-
necessarily with conventional language.
For the sake of clearness and the profit-
able use of conceptions, it is necessary
that things should always be called by
their right names.

The right appreciation of their oppo-
nents (Daun, Schwartzenburg), the au-
dacity to leave for a short space of time
a small force only before them, energy in
forced marches, boldness in sudden at-
tacks, the intensified activity which great
souls acquire in the moment of danger,
these are the grounds of such victories ;
and what have these to do with the
ability to make an exact calculation of
two such simple things as time and
space ?

But even this ricochetting play of
forces, ''when the victories at Bosbach
and Montmirail give the impulse to vic-
tories at Leuthen and Montereau," to
which great generals on the. defensive
have often trusted, is still, if we would be
clear and exact, only a rare occurrence
in history.

Much more frequently the relative su-
periority— ^that is, the skilful assemblage
of superior forces at the decisive point —
has its foundation in the right apprecia-
tion of those points, in the judidoiis
direction which by that means has been
given to the forces from the very first, and
in the resolution required to sacrifice the

CHAP. IX.]

THE SURPRISE.

103

unimportcuit to the advantage of the im-
portant— that 18, to keep the forces con-
centrated in an overpowering mass. In
this, Frederick the Great and Buonaparte
are particularly characteristic.

We think we have now allotted to the
superiority in numbers the importance
which belongs to it ; it is to be regarded
as the fundamental idea^ always to be
aimed at before all and as far as possible.

But to regard it on this account as a

necessaiy condition of victory, would be a
complete misconception of our exposition;
in the conclusion to be drawn from it
there lies much rather nothing more
than the value which should attach to
numerical strength in the combat. If
that strength is made as great as possible,
then the maxim is satisfied ; a review of
the total relations must then decide whe-
ther or not the combat is to be avoided
for want of sufficient force.

CHAPTER IX.

THE SURPRISE.

Fbom the subject of the foregoing chap-
ter, the general endeavour to attain a
relative superiority, there follows another
endeavour which must consequently be
just as general in its nature : this is the
turpriu of the enemy. It lies more or
less at the foundation of all undertakings,
for without it the preponderance at the
decisive point is not properly conceivable.
The surprise is, therefore, the medium
to numerical superiority; but it is besides
that also to be regarded as a substantive
principle in itseK, on aecoimt of its moral
effect. When it is successful in a high
degree, confusion and broken courage in
the enemy's ranks are the consequences ;
and of the degree to which these multiply
a success, there are examples enough,
g^at and small. We are not, on this
account, speaking now of the particular
surprise which belongs to the attack, but
of the endeavour by measures generally,
and especially by the distribution of
forces, to surprise the enemy, which can
be imagined just as weU in the defensive.

and which in the tactical defence parti-
cularly is a great chief point.

We say, surprise lies at the foundation
of all undertakings without exception,
only in very different degrees according
to the nature of the imdertaking and other
circumstances.

This difference, indeed, commences in
the properties or peculiarities of the
army and its commander, in those even
of the government.

Secrecy and rapidity are the two fac-
tors of this product; and these suppose in
the government and the commander-in-
chief great energy, and on the part of the
army a high sense of militaiy duty. With
effeminacy and loose principles it is in
vain to calculate upon a surprise. But
so general, indeed so indispensable, as is
this endeavour, and true as it is that it
is never wholly unproductive of effect,
still it is not the less true that it seldom
succeeds to a remarkahle degree, and that
this is in the nature of the thing. We
should form an erroneous idea if we

HiV

104

ON WAR.

[book iu.

belieyed that by this means chiefly there
is much to be attained in war. In idea
it promises a great deal; in the execution
it generally sticks fast by the friction of
the whole machine.

In tactics the surprise is much more at
home, for the very natural reason that
all times and spaces are on a smaller
scale. It will, tiierefore, in strategy be
the more feasible in proportion as the
measures lie nearer to the province of
tactics, and more difficult the higher up
they lie towards the province of policy.

The preparations for a war usually
occupy several months ; the assembly of
an army at its principal positions requires
generally the formation of depots and
magazines, and long marches, tiie object
of which can be guessed soon enough.

It therefore rarely happens that one
State surprises another by a war, or by
the direction which it gives the mass of
its forces. In the seventeenth and
eighteenth centuries, when war turned
very much upon sieges, it was a frequent
aim, and quite a peculiar and important
chapter in the art of war, to invest a
strong place unexpectedly, and even that
only re rely succeeded.

On the other hand, with things which
can be done in a day or two, a surprise
is much more conceivable, and, therefore,
also it is often not difficult then to gain
a march upon the enemy, and thereby a
position, a point of country, a road, etc.
But it is evident that what surprise gains
in this way in easy execution, it loses in
the efficacy, as the greater the efficacy the
greater always the difficulty of execu-
tion. Whoever thinks that with such sur-
prises on a small scale, he may connect
great results — as, for example, tlie gain of
a battle, the capture of an important ma-
gazine— believes in something which it is
ot»rtaiuly very possible to imagine, but
which there is no warrant for in history ;
for there are upon the whole very few
instances where an^nhing great' has
resulted from such surprises; from which

we may justly conclude that inhe-
rent difficidties lie in the way of their
success.

Certainly, whoever would consxdt his-
tory on such points must not depend on
sundry battle steeds of historical critics,
on their wise dicta and self complacent
terminology, but look at facts with his
own eyes. There is, for instance, a cer-
tain day in the campaign in Silesia, 1761,
which, in this respect, has attained a
kind of notoriety. It is the 22nd July,
on which Frederick the Great grained on
Laudon the march to Nossen, near Neisse,
by which, as is said, the junction of the
Austrian and Kussian armies in Upper
SUesia bec£une impossible, and, therefore,
a period of four weeks was gained by the
King. Whoever reads over this occur-
rence carefully in the principal histories,*
and considers it impartially, will, in the
march of the 22nd July, never find this
importance ; and geneitdly in the whole
of the fashionable log^c on this subject,
he will see nothing but contradictions; but
in the proceedings of Laudon, in this re-
nowned period of manoeuvres, much that
is unaccountable. How could one, with
a thirst for truth and clear conviction,
accept such historical evidence ?

When we promise ourselves great
effects in a campaign from the principle
of surprising, we think upon great
activity, rapid resolutions, and forced
marches, as the means of producing
them ; but that these things, even when
forthcoming in a veiy high degree, wiU
not always produce the desired effect^
we see in examples given by two
generals, who may be allowed to have
had the greatest talent in the use of
these means, Frederick the Great and
Buonaparte. The first when ho left
Dresden so suddenly in July, 1760, and
falling upon Lascy, then turned against

• Tempelhof, The Veteiwi, Frederick the Great.
Compuvalso ^CUusewiu) '^Hinterlftsscne Werke,*'

CHAP. IZ.3

THE SURPRISE.

105

V

Dresden, gained nothing bj the whole of
that intermezzo, but rather placed his
affairs in a condition notably worse,
as Glatz fell in the mean time.

In 1813, Buonaparte turned suddenly
from Dresden twice against Bliicher, to
say nothing of his incursion into Bohemia
from Upper Lusatia, and both times
without in the least measure attaining
his object They were blows in the air
which only cost him time and force, and
might have placed him in a dangerous
position in Dresden.

Therefore, even in this field, a surprise
does not necessarily meet with great suc-
cess through the mere activity, energy,
and resolution of the commander ; it must
be favoured by other circumstances. But
we by no means deny that there can be
success; w^e only connect with it a necessity
of favourable circumstances, which, cer-
tainly, do not occur very frequently, ajid
>% hich the commander can seldom bring
about himself.

Just those two generals afford each a
striking illustration of this. We take
first Buonaparte in his famous enterprise
against Blucher's army in 1814, when it
was separated from the Grand Army, and
descending the Mame. It would not be
easy to find a two days' march to surprise
the enemy productive of greater results
than this ; BlUcher's army, extended over
a distance of three days' march, was
beaten in detail, and sufiered a loss
nearly equal to that of defeat in a great
battle. This was completely the effect of
a surprise, for if Blucher had thought of
such a near possibility of an attack from
Buonaparte he would have organised his
march quite differently. To this mistake
of BlUcher's the result is to be attributed.
Buonaparte did not know all these
circumstances, and so there was a piece
of good fortune that mixed itself up in
his favour.

It is the 8£une with the battle of
Liegnitz, 1760. Frederick the Great
gained this fine victory through altering

during the night a position which he had
just before taken up. Laudon was
through this completely surprised, and
lost 70 pieces of artillery and 1 0, 000 men.
Although Frederick the Great had at
this time adopted the principle of moving
backwards and forwards in order to make
a battle impossible, or at least to dis-
concert the enemy's plans, still the altera-
tion of position on the night of the 14-
15 was not made exactly with that inten-
tion, but as the King himself says,
because the position of the 14th did not
please him. Here, therefore, also chance
was hard at work ; without this happy
conjunction of the attack and the change
of position in the night, and the difficult
nature of the country, the result would
not have been the same.

Also in the higher and highest province
of Strategy there are some instances of
surprises fruitful in results. We shall
only cite the brilliant marches of the
great elector against the Swedes from
Franconia to Fomerania, and from the
Mark (Brandenburg) to the Pregel in
1757, and the celebrated passage of the
Alps by Buonaparte, 1800. In the latter
cajse an army gave up its whole theatre
of war by a capitulation, and in 1757
another army was very near giving up
its theatre of war and itself as weU.
Lastly, as an instance of a war wholly
unexpected, we may bring forward the
invasion of Silesia by Frederick the
Great. Great and powerful are here the
results everywhere, but such events are
not common in history if we do not
confuse with them cases in which a state,
for want of activity and energy (Saxony
1756, and Eussia, 1812), has not com-
pleted its preparations.

Now there stiU remains an observation
which concerns the essence of the thing.
A surprise can only be effected by that
party which gives the law to the other ;
and he, who is in the right gives the law.
If we surprise the adversary by a wrong
measure, then instead of reaping good

106

ON WAR.

[book m.

results, we may have to bear a sound
blow in return ; in any case the adversary
need not trouble himself much about our
surprise, he has in our mistake the
means of turning off the evil. As the
offensive includes in itself much more
positive action than the defensive, so the
surprise is certainly more in its place
with the assailant, but by no means
invariably, as we shall hereafter see.
Mutual surprises by the offensive and
defensive may therefore meet, and then
that one will have the advantage who
has hit the nail on the head the best.

So should it be, but practical life does
not keep to this line so exactly, and that
for a very simple reason. The moral effects
which attend a surprise often convert

the worst case into a good one for the
side they favour, and do not allow the
other to make any regular determination.
We have here in view more than any-
where else not only the chief com-
mander, but each single one, because a
surprise has the effect in particular of
greatly loosening imity, so that the
individuality of each separate leader
easily comes to light.

Much depends here on the general
relation in which the two parties stand
to each other. If the one side through a
general moral superiority can intimidate
and outdo the other, then he can make
use of the surprise with more success,
and even reap good fruit where properly
he should come to ruin.

CHAPTER X.

STRATAGEM.

Stratagem implies a concealed intention,
and therefore is opposed to straightfor-
ward dealing, in the same way as wit is
the opposite of direct proof. It has there-
fore nothing in common with means of
persuasion, of self-interest, of force, but a
great deal to do with deceit, because that
likewise conceals its object. It is itself
a deceit as well when it is done, but
still it differs from what is commonly
called deceit, in this respect that there is
no direct breach of woni. The deceiver
by stratagem leaves it to the person him-
self whom he is deceiving to commit the
errors of imderstcmding which at last,
flowing into one result, suddenly change
the nature of things in his eyes. We
may therefore say, as Vfii is a sleight of
hand with ideas and conceptions, so

stratagem is a sleight of hand with
actions.

At first sight it appears as if strategy
had not improperly derived its name
from stratagem ; and that, with all the
real and apparent changes which the
whole character of war has undergone
since the time of the Greeks, this term
still points to its real nature.

If we leave to tactics the actual
delivery of the blow, the battle itself and
look upon strategy as the art of using
this means with skill, then besides the
forces of the character, such as burning
ambition which always presses like a
spring, a strong will which hardly bends
etc., etc., there seems no subjective
quality so suited to guide and inspire
strategic activity as stratagem. The

CHAP. X.]

BTRATAQEM.

107

general tendency to Burprise, treated of
in the foregoing chapter, points to this
conclusion, for there is a degree of stra-
tagem, be it ever so small, which lies at
the foundation of every attempt to sur-
prise.

But however much we feel a desire to
see the actors in war outdo each other
in hidden activity, readiness, and stra-
tagem, still we must admit that these
qualities show themselves but little in
history, and have rarely been able to
work their way to the surface from
amongst the mass of relations and cir-
cumstances.

The explanation of this is obvious,
and it is almost identical with the subject
matter of the preceding chapter.

Strategy knows no other activity than
the reg^ulating of combat with the mea-
sures which relate to it. It has no con-
cern, like ordinary life, with transactions
which consist merely of words — that is,
in expressions, declarations, etc. But
these, which are very inexpensive, are
chiefly the means with which the wily
one takes in those he practises upon.

That which there is like it in war,
plans and orders given merely as make-
believes, false reports sent on purpose to
the enemy — is usually of so little effect
in the strategic field that it is only re-
sorted to in particular cases which offer
of themselves, therefore cannot be re-
garded as spontaneous action which ema-
nates from the leader.

But such measures as carrjring out
the arrangements for a battle, so far as
to impose upon the enemy, require a
considerable expenditure of time and
power; of course, the greater the im-
pression to be made, the greater the ex-
penditure in these respects. And as this
is usually not given for the purpose, very

few demonstrations, so-called, in strategy,
effect the object for which they are de-
signed. In fact, it is dangerous to de-
tach large forces for any length of time
merely for a trick, because there is always
the risk of its being done in vain, and
then these forces are wanted at the deci-
sive point.

The chief actor in war is always tho-
roughly sensible of this sober truth, and
therefore he has no desire to play at
tricks of agility. The bitter earnest-
ness of necessity presses so fully into
direct action that there is no room for
that game. In a word, the pieces on the
strategical chess-board want that mobi-
lity which is the element of stratagem
and subtilty.

The condusion which we draw, is that
a correct and penetrating eye is a more
necessary and more useful quality for a
general than craftiness, al&ough that
also does no harm if it does not exist at
the expense of necessary qualities of
the heart, which is only too often the case.

But the weaker the forces become
which are under the command of stra-
tegy, so much the more they become
adapted for stratagem, so that to the
quite feeble and little, for whom no pru-
dence, no sagacity is any longer sufficient
at the point where all art seems to for-
sake him, stratagem offers itself as a last
resource. The more helpless his situa-
tion, the more everything presses to-
wards one single, desperate blow, the
more readily stratagem comes to the aid
of his boldness. Let loose from all fur-
ther calculations, freed from all concern
for the future, boldness and stratagem
intensify each other, and thus collect at
one point an infinitesimal glimmering
of hope into a single ray, which may
likewise serve to kindle a flame.

108

ON WAIL

[book ui.

CHAPTER XI.

ASSEMBLY OF FOECES IN SPACE.

The best strategy is always to he very
strong, first generally, then at tlie deci-
sive point. Therefore, apart from the
energy which creates the army, a work
which is not always done by the general,
there is no more imperative and simpler
law for strategy than to keep the forces con-
centrated.— No portion is to be separated
from the main body unless called away
by some urgent necessity. On this
maxim we stand firm, and look upon it
as a guide to be depended upon. What
are the reasonable grounds on which a
detachment of forces may be made we
shall learn by degrees Then we shall
also see that this principle cannot have
the same general efifects in every war.

but that these are different according to
the means and end.

It seems incredible, and yet it has
happened a hundred times, that troops
have been divided and separated merely
through a mysterious feeling of conven-
tional manner, without any clear percep-
tion of the reason.

If the concentration of the whole force
is acknowledged as the norm, and
every division and sepeu-ation as an ex-
ception which must be justified, theu
not only will that folly be completely
avoided, but also many an erroneoiis
ground for separating troops will be
barred admission.

CHAPTER XII.

ASSEMBLY OF FORCES IN TIME.

We have here to deal with a conception
which in real Kfo difiPuses many kinds of
illusory light, a clear definition and deve-
lopment of the idea is therefore necessary,
and we hope to be allowed a short
analysis.

War is the shock of two opposing
forces in the collision with each other,
from which it follows as a matter of course
that the stronger not only destroys the
other, but carries it forward with it in its
movement. This fundamentally admits
of no successive action of powers, but

makes the simultaneous application of all
forces intended for the shock appear as a
primordial law of war.

80 it is in reality, but only so far as
the struggle resembles also in reality a
mechanical shock, but when it consists in
a lasting mutual action of destructive
forces, then we can certainly imagine a
successive action of forces. This is the
case in tactics, principally because fire-
arms form the basis of all tactics, but
also for other reasons as well. If in fire
combat 1000 men are opposed to 500,

CHAP, xn.]

ASSEMBLY OF FORCES IN TIME.

109

then the gross loss is calculated from the
amount of the enemy's force and our
own ; 1,000 fire twice as many shots as
500, but more shots will take effect on the
1,000 than on the 500 because it is assumed
that they stand in closer order than the
other. If we were to suppose the num-
ber of hits to be double, then the losses
on each side would be equal. From the
500 there would be for example 200 dis-
abled, and out of the body of 1,000 like-
wise the same ; now if the 500 had kept
another body of equal number quite out
of fire, then both sides would have 800
effective men ; but of these, on the one
side there would be 500 men quite fresh,
fiiUy supplied with ammunition, and in
their full vigour ; on the other side only
800 all alike shaken in their order, in
want of sufficient ammunition £bid weak-
ened in physical force. The assumption
that the 1,000 men merely on account of
their greater number would lose twice as
many as 500 would have lost in their
place, is certainly not correct ; therefore
the greater loss which that side suffers
which has placed the half of its force in
reserve, must be regarded as a disadvan-
tage in that original formation ; further
it must be admitted, that in the generality
of cases the 1,000 men would have the
advantage at the first commencement of
being able to drive their opponent out
of his position and force him to a retro-
grade movement ; now, whether these two
advantages are a counterpoise to the dis-
advantage of finding ourselves with 800
men to a certain extent disorganised by
the combat, opposed to an enemy who is
not materially weaker in numbers and
who has 500 quite fresh troops, is one
that cannot be decided by pursuing an
analysis further, we must here rely upon
experience, and there will scarcely be an
officer experienced in War who will not
in the generality of cases assign the ad-
vantage to that side which has the fresh
troops.

In this way it becomes evident how the

employment of too many forces in com-
bat may be disadvantageous ; for what-
ever advantasres the superiority may even
give in the fi^t moment, we may W to
pay dearly for in the next. <

But this danger only lasts as long as
the disorder, the state of confusion and
weakness lasts, in a word, up to the crisis
which every combat brings with it even
for the conqueror. Within the duration
of this relaxed state of exhaustion, the
appearance of a proportionate number of
fresh troops is decisive.

But when this disordering effect of
victory stops, and therefore only the
moral superiority remains which every
victory gives, then it is no longer possible
for fresh troops to restore the combat,
they would only be carried along in the
general movement ; a beaten army can
not be brought back to victory a day
after by means of a strong reserve.
Here we find ourselves at the source of
a highly material difference between tac-
tics and strategy.

The tactical results, the results within
the four comers of the battle, and before
its close, lie for the most part within the
limits of that period of disorder and
weakness. But the strategic result, that
is to say, the result of the total combat,
of the victories realised, let them be
small or great, lies completely (beyond)
outside of that period. It is only when
the results of partial combats have bound
themselves together into an independent
whole, that the strategic result appears,
but then, the state of crisis is over, the
forces have resumed their original form,
and are now only weakened to the extent
of those actually destroyed (placed hors de
combat).

The consequence of this difference is
that tactics can make a continued use of
forces, strategy only a simultaneous one.

If I cannot, in tactics, decide all by the
first success, if I have to fear the next
moment, it follows of itself that I employ
only so much of my force for the success

no

ON 7FAE;

[book ni.

of the first moment as appears sufficient
for that object, and keep the rest beyond
the reach of fire or conflict of any kind,
in order to be able to oppose fresh troops
to fresh, or with such to overcome those
that are exhausted. But it is not so in
strategy. Partly, as we have just shown,
it has not so much reason to fear a reac-
tion after a success realised, because with
that success the crisis stops; partly all
the forces strategically employed are not
necessarily weakened. Only so much of
them as has been tactically in conflict
with the enemy's force, that is, engaged
in partial combat, is weakened by it ;
consequently, only so much as was un-
avoidably necessary, but by no means
all whicli was strategically in conflict
with the enemy, unless tactics has
expended unnecessarily. Corps which,
on account of the general superiority in
numbers, have either been Httle or not
at all engaged, whose presence alone has
assisted in the result, are after the deci-
sion the same as they were before, and
for new enterprises as efficient as if they
had been entirely inactive. How greatly
such corps which thus constitute our
excess may contribute to the total suc-
cess is evident in itself; indeed, it is not
difficult to see how they may even dimi-
nish considerably the loss of the forces
engaged in tactical conflict on our side.

If, therefore, in strategy the loss does
not increase with the number of the
troops employed, but is often diminished
by it, and if, as a natural consequence,
the decision in our favour is, by that
means, the more certain, then it follows
naturally that in strategy we can never
employ too many forces, and consequently
also 'diat they must be applied simul-
taneously to the immediate purpose.

But we must vindicate this proposition
upon another ground. We have hitherto
only spoken of the combat itself; it is
the real activity in war, but men, time, and
space, which appear as the elements of
this activity, must, at the same time, be

kept in view, and the results of their influ-
ence brought into the consideration also.

Fatigue, exertion, and privation consti-
tute in war a special principle of destruc-
tion, not essentially belonging to contest,
but more or less inseparably bound up
with it, and certainly one which especially
belongs to strategy. They no doubt
exist in tactics as well, and perhaps there
in the highest degree ; but as the duration
of the tactical acts is shorter, therefore
the small eflects of exertion and privation
on them can come but little into consi-
deration. But in strategy on the other
hand, where time and space are on a
larger scale, their influence is not only
always very considerable, but often quite
decisive. It is not at all uncommon for
a victorious army to lose many more by
sickness than on the fleld of battle.

Ifi therefore, we look at this sphere of
destruction in strategy in the same manner
as we have considered that of fire and
dose combat in tactics, then we may well
imagine that everything which comes
within its vortex will, at the end of the
campaign or of any other strategic
period, be reduced to a state of weak-
ness, which makes the arrival of a
fresh force decisive. We might there-
fore conclude that there is a motive in
the one case or well or the other to strive
for the first success with as few forces as
possible, in order to keep up this fresh
force for the last.

In order to estimate exactly this con-
clusion, which, in many cases in practice,
will have a great appearance of truth,
we must direct our attention to the sepa-
rate ideas which it contains. In the first
place, we must not confuse the notion of
reinforcement with that of fresh unused
troops. There are few campaigns at the
end of which a new increase of force is
not earnestly desired by the conqueror
as well as the conquered, and indeed
should appear decisive ; but that is not
the point here, for that increase of force
could not be necessary if the force had

OHAP. xn.]

ASSEMBLY OF FORCES ^N TIME.

Ill

been that mudi larger at the first. But
it would be contrary to all experience to
suppose that an army coming fresh into
the field is to be esteemed higher in point
of moral value than an army already in
the field, just as a tactical reserve is more
to be esteemed than a body of troops
which has been already severely handled
in the fight. Just as much as an unfortu-
nate campaign lowers the courage and
moral powers of an army, a successful one
raises these elements in their value. In
the generality of cases, therefore, these
influences are compensated, and then
there remains over and above as clear
gain the habituation to war. We should
besides look more here to success^ than
to unsuccessful campaigns, because when
the greaterprobability of the latter maybe
seen beforehand, without doubt forces are
wanted, and, therefore, the reserving a por-
tion for future use is out of the question.

This point being settled, then the
question is, Do the losses which a force
sustains through fatigues and privations
increase in proportion to the size of the
force, as is the case in a combat? And to
that we answer ** No."

The fatigues of war result in a great
measure from the dangers with which
every moment of the act of war is more
or less impregnated. To encounter these
dangers at all points, to proceed onwards
with security in the execution of one's
plans, that gives employment to a mul-
titude of agencies which make up the
tactical and strategic service of the army.
This service is more difficult the weaker
an army is, and easier as its numerical
superiority over that of the enemy in-
creases. Who can doubt this ? A cam-
paign against a much weaker enemy will
therefore cost smaller efibrts than against
one just as strong or stronger.

So much for the fatigues. It is some-
what different with the privations ; they
consiBt chiefly of two things, the want of
food, and the want of shelter for the
troops, either in quarters or in suitable

camps. Both these wants wiU no doubt
be greater in proportion as the number
of men on one spot is greater. But does
not the superiority in force just afford
also the best means of spreading out and
finding more room, and therefore more
means of subsistence and shelter ?

If Buonaparte, in his invasion of Bussia
in IS 12, concentrated his army in great
masses upon one single road in a manner
never heard of before, and thus caused
privations equally unparaUeled, we must
ascribe it to his maxim that it is impossible
to he too strong at the decisive point. Whe-
ther in this instance he did not strain the
principle too far is a question which
would be out of place here; but it is cer-
tain that, if he had made a point of avoid-
ing the distress which was by that means
brought about, he had only to advance
on a greater breadth of front. Boom was
not wanted for the purpose in Bussia,
and in very few cases can it* be wanted.
Therefore, from this no ground can be
deduced to prove that the simultaneous
employment of very superior forces must
produce greater weakening. But now,
supposing that in spite of the general
relief afforded by setting apart a portion
of the army, wind and weather and the
toils of war had produced a diminution
even on the part which as a spare force
had been reserved for later use, still we
must take a comprehensive general view
of the whole, and therefore ask. Will this
diminution of force suffice to counter-
balance the gain in forces, which we,
through our superiority in numbers, may
be able to make in more ways than one ?

But there still remains a most impor-
tant point to be noticed. In a partial
combat, the force required to obtain a
great residt, which has been proposed,
can be approximately estimated without
much difficulty, and, consequently, we can
form an idea of what is super^uous. In
strategy this may be said to be impossible,
because the strategic result has no such
well-defined object and no such circum-

102

ON WAR.

[book nr.

Lastly, there are a number of instances
to be found, in which all the available
forces were not really brought into the
battle, or into the war, because the
superiority of numbers was not considered
to have that importance which in the
nature of things belongs to it.

If we are thoroughly penetrated with
the conviction that wi^ a considerable
superiority of numbers everything pos-
sible is to be effected, then it cannot fail
that this clear conviction reacts on the
preparations for the war, so as to make us
appear in the field with as many troops
as possible, and either to give us our-
selves the superiority, or at least to guard
against the enemy obtaining it. So much
for what concerns the absolute force with
which the war is to be conducted.

The measure of this absolute force is
determined by the government; and
although with this determination the real
action of war commences, and it forms
an essential part of the strategy of the
war, still in most cases the general
who is to command these forces in the
war must regard their absolute strength
as a given quantity, whether it be that
he has had no voice in fixing it, or that
circumstances prevented a sufficient ex-
pansion being given to it.

There remains nothing, therefore, where
an absolute superiority is not attainable,
but to produce a relative one at the
decisive point, by making skilful use of
what we have.

The calculation of space and time ap-
pears as the most essential thing to this
end, and this has caused that subject to
be regarded as one which embraces nearly
the whole art of using military forces.
Indeed, some have gone so far as to ascribe
to great strategists and tacticians a mental
organ peculiarly adapted to this point.

But the calculation of time and space,

recollect as examples — the first in a passage of his
first part, page 148 ; the other in his correspondence
relative to the plan of operations of the Russians in
1769.

although it lies universally at the founda-
tion of strategy, and is to a certain extent
its daily bread, is still neitherwthe most
difficult, nor the most decisive one.

If we take an unprejudiced glance at
military history, we shall find that the
instances in which mistakes in such a cal-
culation have proved the cause of serious
losses are very rare, at least in strategy.
But if the conception of a skilful com-
bination of time and space is fully to
account for every instance of a resolute
and active commander beating several
separate opponents with one and the
same army (Frederick the Great, Buo-
naparte), then we perplex ourselves un-
necessarily with conventional language.
For the sake of clearness and the profit-
able use of conceptions, it is necessary
that things should always be called by
their right names.

The right appreciation of their oppo-
nents (Daun, Schwartzenburg), the au-
dacity to leave for a short space of time
a small force only before them, energy in
forced marches, boldness in sudden at-
tacks, the intensified activity which g^at
souls acquire in the moment of danger,
these are the grounds of such victories ;
and what have these to do with the
ability to make an exact calculation of
two such simple things as time and
space ?

But even this ricochetting play of
forces, "when the victories at Bosbach
and Montmirail give the impulse to vic-
tories at Leuthen and Montereau," to
which g^eat generals on the* defensive
have often trusted, is still, if we would be
clear and exact, only a rare occurrence
in history.

Much more frequently the relative su-
periority— ^that is, the skilful assemblage
of superior forces at the decisive point-
has its foundation in the right apprecia-
tion of those points, in the judicious
direction which by that means has been
given to the forces from the very first, and
in the resolution required to sacrifice the

CHAP. IX.]

THE SURPRISE,

103

unimportant to the advantage of the im-
portant— that is, to keep the forces con-
centrated in an overpowering mass. In
this, Frederick the Great and Buonaparte
are particularly charcM^teristic.

We think we have now allotted to the
superiority in numbers the importance
which belongs to it ; it is to be regarded
as the fundamental idea, always to be
aimed at before all and as far as possible.

But to regard it on this account as a

necessary condition of victoiy, would be a
complete misconception of our exposition;
in the conclusion to be drawn from it
there lies much rather nothing more
than the value which should attach to
numerical strength in the combat. If
that strength is made as groat as possible,
then the maxim is satisfied ; a review of
the total relations must then decide whe-
ther or not the combat is to be avoided
fdr want of sufficient force.

CHAPTER IX.

THE SURPRISE.

Fbom the subject of the foregoing chap-
ter, the general endeavour to attain a
relative superiority, there follows another
endeavour which must consequently be
just as general in its nature : this is the
surprise of the enemy. It Kes more or
less at the foundation of all undertakings,
for without it the preponderance at Uie
decisive point is not properly conceivable.
The surprise is, therefore, the medium
to numerical superiority; but it is besides
that also to be regarded as a substantive
principle in itself, on account of its moral
effect. When it is successful in a high
degree, confusion and broken courage in
the enemy's ranks are the consequences ;
and of the degree to which these multiply
a success, there are examples enough,
great and small. We are not, on this
account, speaking now of the particular
surprise which belongs to the attack, but
of the endeavour by measures generally,
and especially by the distribution of
forces, to surprise the enemy, which can
be imagined just as well in the defensive.

and which in the tactical defence peurti-
cularly is a great chief point.

We say, surprise lies at the foundation
of all undertakings without exception,
only in very different degrees according
to the nature of the undertaking and other
circumstances.

This difference, indeed, commences in
the properties or peculiarities of the
army and its commander, in those even
of the government.

Secrecy and rapidity are the two fac-
tors of this product; and these suppose in
the government and the commander-in-
chief great energy, and on the part of the
army a high sense of military duty. With
effeminacy and loose principles it is in
vain to calculate upon a surprise. But
so general, indeed so indispensable, as is
this endeavour, and true as it is that it
is never wholly unproductive of effect,
still it is not the less true that it seldom
succeeds to a remarkable degree, and that
this is in the nature of the thing. We
should form an erroneous idea if we

114

ON WAR.

[book in.

ous the more the measure has a tendency
towards being one of a general nature.

We have seen that the decision of a
partial combat is nothing in itself, but
that all partial combats only find their
complete solution in the decision of the
total combat.

But even this decision of the total
combat has only a relative meaning of
many diflterent gradations, according as
the force over which the victory has
been gained forms a more or less great
and important part of the whole. The
lost battle of a corps may be repaired by
the victory of the army. Even the lost
battle of an army may not only be coun-
terbalanced by file gain of a more im-
portant one, but converted into a fortu-
nate event (the two days of Culm, 1813).
No one can doubt this ; but it is just as
clear that the weight of each victory (the
Buccessful issue of each total combat) is
80 much the more substantial the more
important the part conquered, and that
therefore the possibility of repairing the
loss by subsequent events diminishes in
the same proportion. In another place
we shall have to examine this more in
detail; it suffices for the present to have
drawn attention to the indubitable exist-
ence of this progression.

If we now add lastly to these two con-
siderations the third, which is, that if the
persistent use of forces in tactics always
shifts the great result to the end of the
whole act, the law of the simultaneous
use of the forces in strategy, on the con-
trary, lets the principal result (which
need not be the final one) take place
almost always at the commencement of
the great (or whole) act, then in these
three results we have grounds sufficient
to find strategic reserves always more
superfluous, always more useless, always
more dangerous the more general their
destination.

But the point where the idea of a
strategic reserve begins to become incon-
sistent is not difficult to determine: it

lies in the suprsme deemon. Employment
must be given to all the forces within
the space of the supreme decision, and
every reserve (active force available)
which is only intended for use after that
decision is opposed to common sense.

If, therefore, tactics has in its reserves
the means of not only meeting unforeseen
dispositions on the part of the enemy,
but also of repairing that which never
can be foreseen, the result of the combat,
should that be unfortunate ; strategy on
the other hand must, at least as far as
relates to the capital residt, renounce the
use of these means. As a rule, it can
only repair the losses sustained at one
point by advantages gained at another,
in a few cases by moving troops from
one point to another; the idea of pre-
paring for such reverses by placing forces
in reserve beforehand, can never be en-
tertained in strategy.

We have pointed out as an absurdity
the idea of a strategic reserve which is not
to co-operate in the capital result, and
as it is so beyond a doubt, we should
not have been led into such an analysis as
we have made in these two chapters, were
it not that, in the disguise of other ideas, it
looks like something better, and frequently
makes its appearance. One person sees
in it the acme of strategic sagacity and
foresight ; another rejects it, and with it
the idea of any reserve, consequently
even of a tactical one. This confusion
of ideas is transferred to real life, and if
we would see a memorable instance of it
we have only to call to mind that Prussia
in 1806 left a reserve of 20,000 men can-
toned in the Mark, under Prince Eugene
of Wurtemberg, which could not possibly
reach the Saale in time to be of any use,
and that another force of 25,000 men be-
longing to this power remained in Eastand
8outh Prussia, destined only to be put on
a weu--footing afterwards as a reserve.

After these examples we cannot be
accused of having been fighting with
windmills.

CHAP. XV].

GEOMETRICAL ELEMENT.

116

CHAPTER XIV.

ECONOMY OF F0ECE8.

The road of reason, as we have said,
seldom allows itself to be reduced to a
mathematical line by principles and
opinions. There remains always a cer-
tain margin. But it is the same in all
the practical arts of life. For the lines
of beauty there are no abscisses and
ordinates; circles and elHpses are not
described by means of their algebraical
formulsB. The actor in war therefore soon
finds he must trust himself to the delicate
tact of judgment which, founded on
natural quickness of perception, and edu-
cated by reflection, cdmost unconsciously
seizes upon the right ; he soon finds that
at one time he must simplify the law (by
reducing it) to some prominent charac-
teristic points which form his rules ; that
at another the adopted method must be-
come the stafi^ on which he leans.

ks one of these simplified characteris-
tic points as a mental appliance, we look
upon the principle of watching continu-

ally over the co-operation of all forces, or
in other words, of keeping constantly in
view that no part of them should ever be
idle. Whoever has forces where the
enemy does not give them sufficient em-
ployment, whoever has part of his forces
on the march — ^that is, aUows them to lie
dead — while the enemy's are fighting, he
is a bad manager of his forces. In this
sense there is a waste of forces, which is
even worse than the employment to no
purpose. If there must be action, then
the first point is that all parts act, because
the most purposeless activity still keeps
employed and destroys a portion of the
enemy's force, whilst troops completely
inactive are for the moment quite neu-
tralised. Unmistakably this idea is
bound up with the principles contained
in the last three chapters, it is the same
truth, but seen from a somewhat more
comprehensive point of view and con-
densed into a single conception.

CHAPTER XV.

GEOMETRICAL ELEMENT.

The length to which the geometrical
element or form in the disposition of
military force in war can become a pre-
dominant principle, we see in the art
of fortification, where geometry looks
after the great and the little. Also in

tactics it plays a groat part. It is the
basis of elementary tactics, or of the
theory of moving troops ; but in field
fortification, as well as in the theory of
positions, and of their attack, its angles
and lines nde like lawgivers who have to

116

ON WAR.

[book m.

decide the contest. Many things here were
at one time mis-applied, and others were
mere Mbbles ; still, however in the tactics
of the present day, in which in every
combat the aim is to surround the enemy,
the geometrical element has attained
anew a great importance in a very simple,
certainly, but constantly recurring ap-
plication. Nevertheless, in tactics, where
all is more movable, where the moral
forces, individiial traits, and chance are
more influential than in a war of sieges,
the geometrical element can never attain
to £e same degree of supremacy as in
the latter. But less still is its influence
in strategy ; certainly here, also, form in
the disposition of troops, the shape of
countries and states is of great impor-
tance ; but the geometrical element is not
decisive here, as in fortification, and not
near so important as in tactics. — ^The
manner in which this influence exhibits
itself, can only be shown by degrees at
those places where it makes its ap-
pearance, and deserves notice. Here we
wish more to direct attention to the
difference which there is between tactics
and strategy in relation to it.

In tactics time and space quickly
dwindle to their absolute minimum. If a
body of troops is attacked in flank and
rear by the enemy, it soon gets to a point
where retreat no longer remains; such
a position is very close to an absolute
impossibility of continuing the fight;
it must therefore extricate itself from it,
or avoid getting into it. This gives
to all combinations aiming at this
from the first commencement a great effi-
ciency, which chiefly consists in the
disquietude which it causes the enemy
as to consequences. This is why the
geometrical disposition of the forces, is

such an important factor in .thet actical
product

In strategy this is only faintly reflected,
on account of the greater space and time.
We do not fire from one theatre of war
upon another; and often weeks and
months must pass before a strategic
movement designed to surroimd the
enemy can be executed. Further, the
distances are so great that the probabi-
lity of hitting the right point at last, even
with the best arrangements, is but small.

In strategy therefore the scope for such
combinations, that is for those resting on
the geometrical element, is much smiuler,
and for the same reason the effect of an
advantage once actually gained at any
point is much greater. Such advantage
has time to bring all its effects to ma^
turity before it is disturbed, or quite
neutralised therein, by any counteracting
apprehensions. We therefore do not
hesitate to regard as an established truths
that in strategy more depends on the
number and the magnitude of the vic-
torious combats, than on the form of the
great lines by which they are connected.

A view just the reverse has been a
favourite tiieme of modem theory, be-
cause a greater importance was supposed
to be ti^us given to strategy, and, as
the higher frinctions of the mind were
seen in strategy, it was thought by that
means to ennoble war, and, as it was
said — through a new substitution of ideas
— to make it more scientific. We
hold it to be one of the princi-
pal uses of a complete theory openly
to expose such vagaries, and as the geo-
metrical element is the fimdamental idea
from which theory usually proceeds,
therefore we have expressly brought out
this point in strong relief.

CHAP, XVI.] ON THE a USPENSION OF TEE A CT IN WARFARE.

11

CHAPTER XVI.

ON THE SUSPENSION OF THE ACT IN WARFARE.

If one looks at war as an act of mutual
destructiony we must of necessity imagine
both, parties in a general way as making
some progress; but at the same time, as
regards the existing moment, we must
almost just as necessarily suppose the
one party in a state of expectation, and
only the other actually advancing, for
circumstances can never be exactly the
same on both sides, or continue so. In
time a change must ensue, from which it
follows that the present moment is more
favourable to one side than the other.
Now if we suppose that both commanders
have a fall knowledge of this circum-
stance, then the one has a motive for
action, which at the same time is a
motive for the other to wait ; therefore,
according to this it cannot be for the
interest of both at the same time to ad-
vance, nor can waiting be for the interest
of both at the same time. This oppo-
sition of interest as rdgards the object is
not deduced here from the principle of
general polarity, and therefore is not in
opposition to tiie argument in the fifth
chapter of the second book ; it depends
on the fact that here in reality the same
thing is at once an incentive or motive
to both commanders, namely the proba-
bility of improving or impairing their
position by future action.

But even if we suppose the possibility
of a perfect equality of circumstances in
this respect, or if we take into account
that through imperfect knowledge of
their mutual position such an equality
may appear to the two commanders to
subsist, still the difference of political
objects does away with this possibility
of suspension. One of the parties must

of necessity be assumed politically to
be the aggressor, because no war coidd
take place from defensive intentions on
both sides. But the aggressor has the
positive object, the defender merely a
negative one. To the first then belongs
the positive action, for it is only by that
mecuis that he can attain the positive
object; therefore, in cases where both
parties are in precisely similar circum-
stances, the aggressor is called upon to
act by virtue of his positive object.

Therefore, accordmg to this manner of
viewing it, a suspension in the act of
warfare, strictly speaking, is in contra-
diction with the nature of the thing;
because two armies, being two incompati-
ble elements, should destroy one another
imremittingly, just as fire and water can
never put themselves in equilibrum, but
act and react upon one another, until one
quite disappears. What would be said
of two wrestlers who remained clasped
round each other for hours without mak-
ing a movement. Action in war, there-
fore, like that of a clock which is woimd
up, shoidd go on running down in regular
motion. — ^But wild as is the nature of war
it still wears the chains of human weak-
ness, and the contradiction we see here,
that man seeks and creates dangers which
he fears at the same time will astonish no
one.

If we cast a glance at militaiy history
in general, there we find so much the
opposite of an incessant advance towards
the aim, that standing sttU and doing
nothing is quite plainly the normal con-
dition of an army in tiiie midst of war,
acting y the exception. This must almost
raise a doubt as to the correctness of our

118

ON WAR.

[book m.

conception. But if military histoxy has
this effect by the great body of its events,
60 also the latest series of them redeems
our view. The war of the French Be-
volution only shows too plainly its reality,
and only proves too plainly its necessity.
In that war, and especially in the cam-
paign of Buonaparte, the conduct of war
attained to that unlimited degree of
energy which we have represented as the
natural law of the element. This degree
is therefore possible, and if it is possible
then it is necessary.

How could any one in fact justify in
the eyes of reason the expenditure of
forces in war, if acting was not the
the object? The baker only heats his oven
if he has bread to put into it ; the horse
is only yoked to the carriage if we mean
to drive ; why then make the enormous
effort of a War if we look for nothing
else by it but like efforts on the part of
the enemy ?

So much in justification of the general
principle : now as to its modifications, as
far as they lie in the nature of the thing
and are independent of special cases.

There are three causes to be noticed
here, which appear as innate coimterpoises
and prevent the over-rapid or uncontroll-
able movement of the wheel- work.

The first, which produces a constant
tendency to delay, and is thereby a re-
tarding principle, is the natural timidity
and want of resolution in the human
mind, a kind of power of gravity in the
moral world, but which is produced not
by attractive, but by repellent forces,
that is to say, by dread of danger and
responsibility.

In the burning element of War, ordi-
nary natures appear to become heavier ;
the impulsion given must therefore be
stronger and more frequently repeated
if the motion is to be a contmuous one.
The mere idea of the object for which
arms have been taken up is seldom suffi-
cient to overcome this resistant force, and
if a warlike enteiprising spirit is not at

the head, who feels himself in war in his
natural element, as much as a fish in the
ocean, or if there is not the pressure
from above of some great responsibility,
then standing still will be the order of the
day, and progress will be the exception.

The second cause is the impeHection
of human perception and judgment,
which is greater in war than anywhere,
because a person hardly knows exactly
his own position from one moment to
another, and can only conjecture on slight
grounds that of the enemy, which is
purposely concealed ; this often gives rise
to Uie case of both parties looking upon
one and the same object as advantageous
for them, while in reality the interest of
one must preponderate ; thus then each
may think he acts wisely by waiting
another moment, as we have already said
in the fifth chapter of the second book.

The third cause which catches hold, like
a ratchet wheel in machinery, from time
to time producing a complete stand still,
is the greater strength of the defensive
form. A may feel too weak to attack B,
from which it does not follow that B, is
strong enough for an attack on A. The
addition of strength, which the defensive
gives is not merely lost by assuming the
offensive, but also passes to the enemy
just as, fig^atively expressed, the dif-
ference oi a^h and a^h is equal to 2h
Therefore it may so happen that both
parties, at one and the same time, not
only feel themselves too weak to attack,
but also are so in reality.

Thus even in the midst of the art of
war itself, anxious sagacity and the ap-
prehension of too great danger find van-
tage ground, by means of which they can
exert their power, and tame the elemen-
tary impetuosity of war.

However, at the same time these causes
without an exaggeration of their effect,
would hardly explain the long states of
inactivity which took place in military
operations, in former times, in wars under-
taken about interests of no great import-

CHAP. XVI.] ON THE S U8PENSI0N OF THE A CT^IN WARFARE,

119

ance, and in which inactdyity consumed
nine-tenths of the time that the troops
remained under arms. This feature in
these wars, is to be traced principally
to the influence which the demands of
the one party, and the condition, and
feeling of the other, exercised over the
conduct of the operations, as has been
already observed in the chapter on the
essence and object of war.

These things may obtain such a pre-
ponderating influence as to make of war
a half-and-half thing. A war is often
nothing more than an armed neutrality,
or a menacing attitude to support nego-
tiations or an attempt to gain some small
advantage by small exertions, and then
to wait the tide of circumstances, or a
disagreeable treaty obligation, which is
fulfilled in the most niggardly way pos-
sible.

In all these cases in which the impulse
given by interest is slight, and the prin-
ciple of hostility feeble, in which there is
no desire to do much, and also not much
to dread from the enemy ; in short, where
no powerfid motives press and drive,
cabinets will not risk much in the game ;
hence this tame mode of carrying on
war, in which the hostile spirit of real
war is laid in irons.

The more war becomes in this manner
a half-and-half thing, so much the more
its theory becomes destitute of the neces-
sary firm pivots and buttresses for its
reasoning; the necessary is constantly
diminishing, the accidental constantly in-
CTeasing.

Nevertheless in this kind of warfare,
there is also a certain shrewdness, indeed,
its action is perhaps more diversified, and
more extensive than in the other. Hazard
played with rouleaux of gold seems
changed into a game of commerce with
groechen. And on this field, where the
conduct of war spins out the time with a
number of small flourishes, with skir-
mishes at outposts, half in earnest half in
jest, with long dispositions which end in

nothing, with positions and marches,
which afterwards ar^ designated as skilful
only because their infinitesimally small
causes are lost, ^d common sense can
make nothing of them, here just on this
very field many theorists find the real
art of war at home: in these feints,
parades, half and quarter thrusts of
former wars, they find the aim of all
theory, the supremacy of mind over mat-
ter, and modern wars appear to them
mere savage fisticufiB, from which
nothing is to be learnt, and which must
be regarded as mere retrograde steps
towards barbarism. This opinion is as
frivolous as the objects to which it relates.
Where great forces and great passions
are wanting, it is certainly easier for a
practised dexterity to show its game ;
but is then the conmiand of great forces,
the steerage in storm and tempest, not
in itself a higher exercise of the intel-
ligent faculties? Is then that kind of
conventional sword-exercise not com-
prised in and belonging to the other
mode of conducting war? Does it not
bear the same relation to it as the motions
upon a ship to the motion of the ship
itself? Truly it can take place only
under the tacit condition that the adver-
sary does no better. And can we tell,
how long he may choose to respect those
conditions ? Has not then the French re-
volution fallen upon us in the midst of
the fancied security of our old system of
war, and driven us from Chalons to
Moscow? And did not Frederick the
Gh:eat in like manner surprise the
Austrians reposing in their ancient habits
of war, and make their monarchy trem-
ble? Woe to the cabinet which, with
a shilly-shally policy, and a routine-rid-
den military system, meets with an adver-
sary who, like the rude element, knows no
other law than that of his intrinsic force.
Every deficiency in energy and exertion
is then a weight in the scales in favour
of the enemy ; it is not so easy then to
change from the fencing posture into that

120

OJT WAR.

[book in.

of on athlete, and a slfglit MoW is often
Biifficient to knock $xP¥rtL the whole.

The resiilt of all the causes now ad-
duced is, that the hostile action of a cam-
paign does not prograM. by a continuous,
but by an intermittent moyement, and
that, therefore, between the sepaitate
bloody acts, there is a period of watch-

ing, during which both parties fall into
the defensive, and also that usually a
higher object causes the principle of
aggression to predominate on one side,
and thus leaves it in general in an
advancing position, by which then its
proceedings become modified in some
degree.

CHAPTER XVII.

ON tHE CHARACTER OF MODERN WAR.

The attention which must be paid to
the character of war as it is now made,
has a great influence upon all plans,
especially on strategic.

Since all methods formerly usual were
upset by Buonaparte's luck and boldness,
and first-rate powers almost wiped out
at a blow ; since the Spaniards by their
stubborn resistance have shown what the
general arming of a nation and insurgent
measures on a great scale can effect, in
spite of weakness and porousness of indi-
vidual parts ; since Bussia, by the cam-
paign of 1812 has taught us, first, that
an empire of great dimensions is not to
be conquered (which might have been
easily known before), secondly, that the
probability of final success does not in all
cases diminish in the same measure as
battles, capitals, and provinces are lost
(which was formerly an incontrovertible
principle with all diplomatists, and there-
fore made them always ready to enter at
once into some bad temporary peace),
but that a nation is often strongest in
the heart of its coimtry, if the enemy's
ofiPensive power has exhausted itself, and
with what enormous force the defensive

then springs over to the offensive ; fiir-
ther, since Prussia (1813) has shown
that sudden efforts may add to an army
sixfold by means of the militia, and that
this militia is just as fit for service abroad
as in its own country; — since all these
events have shown what an enormous
factor the heart and sentiments of a
nation may be in the product of its poli-
tical and military strength, in fine, since
governments have found out all these
additional aids, it is not to be expected
that they wiU let them lie idle in future
wars, whether it be that danger threatens
their own existence, or that restless am-
bition drives them on.

That a war which is waged with the
whole weight of the national power on
each side must be organised differently
in principle to those where everything is
calcidated according to the relations of
standing armies to each other, it is easy
to perceive. Standing armies once re-
sembled fleets, the land force the sea
force in their relations to the remainder
of the State, and &om that the art of war
on shore had in it something of naval
tactics, which it has now quite lost.

■ «

CHAP, xvin.]

TENSION AND RJEST.

121

CHAPTER XVIIL

TENSION AND EEST.

The Dynamic Law of War.

Wx have seen in tlie sixteenth chapter of
this book (page 117), how, in most cam-
paigns, much more time used to be spent
in standing still and inaction than in ac-
tivity. Now, although, as observed in the
preceding chapter, we see quite a different
character in the present form of war, still
it is certain that real action will always
be interrupted more or less by long
pauses; and this leads to the necessity
of our examining more closely the nature
of these two phases of war.

If there is a suspension of action in
war, that is, if neither party wills some-
thing positive, there is rest, and conse-
quently eqidlibrium, but certainly an
equilibrium in the largest signification,
in which not only the moral and physical
war-forces, but all relations and interests,
come into calculation. As soon as ever one
of the two parties proposes to himself a
new positive object, and commences ac-
tive steps towards it, even if it is only by
preparations, and as soon as the adver-
sary opposes this, there is a tension of
powers; this lasts until the decision
takes place — that is, until one party
either gives up his object or the other
has conceded it to him.

This decision — the foundation of which
lies always in the combat-combinations
which are made on each side — is fol-
lowed by a movement in one or other
direction.

When this movement has exhausted
itself, either in the difficidties which
had to be overcome, as upon its own
friction, or through new resistant forces.

then either a state of rest takes place or
a new tension with a decision, and then
a new movement, in most cases in the
opposite direction.

This speculative distinction between
equilibrium, tension, and motion is more
essential for practical action than may at
first sight appear.

In a state of rest and of ^uilibrium a
varied kind of activity may prevail that
is one that results from opportunity, and
does not aim at a great alteration. Such
an activity may contain important com-
bats^-even pitched battles — but yet it is
still of quite a different nature, and on
that accoimt generally different in its
effects.

If a state of tension exists, the effects
of the decision are always greater, partly
because a greater force of will and a
greater pressure of circimistances mani-
fest themselves therein; partly because
eveiything has been prepared and ar-
ranged for a great movement. The de-
cision in such cases resembles the effect
of a mine well closed and tamped, whilst
an event in itself perhaps just as great,
in a state of rest is more or less Hke a
mass of powder puffed away in the open
air.

At the same time, as a matter of course,
the state of tension must be imagined in
different degrees of intensity, and it may
therefore approach gradually by many
steps towards the state of rest, so that at
the last there is a very slight difference
between them.

Now the real use which we derive from
these reflections is the conclusion that
every measure which is taken during a

122

ON WAR.

[book III.

state of tension is more important and
more prolific in results than the same
measure could be in a state of equi-
librium, and that this importance . in-
creases immensely in the highest degrees
of tension.

The cannonade of Yalmy decided more
than Xhe battle of Hochkirch.

In a tract of country which the enemy
abandons to us because he cannot defend
it, we can settle ourselves differently
from what we should if the retreat of the
enemy was only made with the view to a
decision under more favourable circum-
stances. Against a strategic attack in
course of execution, a faulty position,
a single false march, may be decisive
in its consequence ; whilst in a state of
equilibrium such errors must be of a
very glaring kind, even to excite the
activity of the enemy in a general way.

Most bygone wars, as we have already
said, consisted, so far as regards the
greater part of the time, in this state of
equilibrium, or at least in such short ten-
sions with long intervals between them,
and weak in their effects, that the events
to which they gave rise were seldom
groat successes, often they were theatri-
cal exhibitions, got up in honour of a
royal birthday (Hochkirch), often a mere
satisfying of the honour of the arms
(Kunersdorf ), or the personal vanity of
the commander (Freiberg).

That a commander should thoroughly
understand these states, that he should
have the tact to act in the spirit of them,
we hold to be a great requisite, and we
have had experience in the campaign of
1806 how far it is sometimes wanting.
In that tremendous tension, when every-
thing pressed on towards a supreme de-
cision, and that alone with all its conse-
quences should have occupied the whole
soul of the commander, measures were
proposed and even partly carried out
(such as the reoonnaisance towards Fran-
oonia), which at the most might have
given a kind of gentle play of oscillation
in a state of equilibriimx. Over these
blundering schemes and views, absorbing
the activity of the army, the really neces-
sary means, which could alone save, was
lost.

But this speculative distinction which
we have made is also necessary for our
Airther progress in the construction of
our theoiy, because all that we have to
say on the relation of attack and defence,
and on the completion of this double-
sided act, concerns the state of the crisis
in which the forces are placed during the
tension and motion, and because all the
activity which can take«place during the
condition of equilibrium can only be re-
garded and treated as a corollary; for
that crisis is the real war and this state
of equilibrium only its reflection.

123

BOOK IV -THE COMBAT.

CHAPTER I.

INTRODUCTORY.

Havino in the foregoing book examined
the subjects which maj be regarded as
the efficient elements of war, wo shaU now
turn our attention to the combat as the
real activity in warfare, which, by its
physical and moral efTects, embraces
sometimes more simply, sometimes in a
more complex manner, the object of the
whole war. In this activity and in its
effects these elements must, therefore,
re-appear.

The formation of the combat is tactical
in its nature ; we only glance at it here in
a general way in order to get acquainted
with it in its aspect as a whole. In practice
the minor or more immediate objects give
every combat a characteristic form ; these

minor objects we shall not learn until
hereafter. But these peculiarities are in
comparison to the general characteristics
of a combat mostly only insignificant, so
that most combats are very like one
another, and, therefore, in order to avoid
repeating that which is general at every
stage, we are compelled to look into it
before taking up the subject of more
special application.

In the first place, therefore, we shall
give in the next chapter, in a few words,
the characteristics of the modem battle
in its tactical course, because that lies at
the foundation of our conceptions of
battle.

CHAPTER II.

CHARACTER OF THE MODERN BATTLE.

AocoRDiNG to the notion we have
formed of tactics and strategy, it follows,
as a matter of course, that if the nature

of the former is changed, that change
must have an influence on the latter. If
tactical facts in one case are entirely

124

ON WAR.

[book iv.

different from those in another, then the
strategic must be so also, if they are to
continue consistent and reasonable.
It is therefore important to characterise
a general action in its modem form
befbre we advance with the study of its
employment in strategy.

What do we do now usually in a great
battle? We place ourselves quietly in
great masses arranged contiguous to and
behind one another. We deploy rela-
tively only a small portion of the whole,
and let it wring itself out in a fire-combat
which lasts for several hours, only inter-
rupted now and again, and removed
hither and thither by separate small
shocks from charges with the bayonet
and cavalry attacks. When this line
has gradually exhausted part of its
warlike fire in this manner, and there
remains, nothing more than the cin-
ders, it is withdrawn and replaced by
another.

In this manner the battle on a modified
principle bums slowly away like wet
powder, and if the veil of night commands
it to stop, because neither party can any
longer see, and neither^ chooses to run
the risk of blind chance, then an account
is taken by each side respectively of the
masses remaining, which can be called
still effective, that is, which have not yet
quite collapsed like extinct volcanoes ;
account is taken of the ground gained or
lost, and of how stands the security of
the rear ; these results with the special
impressions as to bravery and oowairdice,
ability and stupidity, which are thought

to have been observed in ourselves and
in the enemy are collected into one single
total impression, out of which there
springs the resolution to quit the field or
to renew the combat on the morrow.

This description, which is not intended
as a finished picture of a modem battle,
but only to give its tone, suits for the
offensive and defensive, and the special
traits which are given by the object
proposed, the country, etc., etc., may be
int»>duced into it without materially
altering this tone.

But modem battles are not so by
accident ; they are so because the parties
find themselves nearly on a level as
regards military organisation and the
knowledge of the art of war, and because
the warlike element inflamed by great
national interests has broken through
artificial limits and now flows in its
natural channel. Under these two
conditions, battles will always preserve
this character.

This general idea of the modem battle
will be useful to us in the sequel in more
places than one, if we want to estimate
the value of the particular co-efficients of
strength, coimtry, etc., etc. It is only for
general, great, and decisive combats, and
such as come near to them that this des-
cription stands good ; inferior ones have
changed their character also in the same
direction but less than great ones. The
proof of this belongs to tactics ; we shall,
however, have an opportunity hereafter
of making this subject plainer by a few
particulars.

CHAP, ni.]

THE COMBAT IN GENERAL.

125

CHAPTER III.

THE COMBAT IN GENERAL.

The Combat is tlie real warlike activitj,
eveiytliiiig else is only its atixiliary ;
let us therefore take an attentive look at
its nature.

Combat is figbt, and in this the de-
struction or conquest of the enemy is the
object, and the enemy in the particular
combat is the armed force which stands
opposed to us.

This is the simple idea; we shall return
to it; but before we can do that we must
insert a series of others.

If we suppose the state and its mili-
taiy force as a unit, then the most natural
idea is to imagine the war also as one
great combat, and in the simple relations
of savage nations it is also not much
otherwise. But our wars are made up
of a number of great and small simul-
taneous or consecutive combats, and this
severance of the activity into so many
separate actions is owing to the great
multiplicity of the relations out of which
War arises with us.

In point of fact, the ultimate object of
our wars, the political one, is not always
quite a simple one ; and even were it so,
still the action is bound up with such
a number of conditions and consider-
ations to be taken into accoimt, that the
object can no longer be attained by one
single great act, but only through a num-
ber of greater or smaller acts which are
bound up into a whole ; each of these
separate acts is therefore a part of
a whole, has consequently a special ob-
ject by which it is bound to this whole.

We have already said that eveiy
strategic act can be referred to the
idea of a combat, because it is an em-
ployment of the military force, and at

the root of that always lies the idea of
combat. We may therefore reduce every
military activity in the province of strat-
egy to the unit of single combats, and
only occupy ourselves with the object of
this last ; we shall only get acquainted
with these special objects by degrees as
we come to speak of the causes which
produce them ; here we content ourselves
with saying that eveiy combat, great
or small, has its own peculiar object in
subordination to the main object. If
this is the case then, the destruction and
conquest of the enemy is only to be re-
garded as the means of gaining this ob-
ject; so it is unquestionably.

But this result is true only in its form,
and important only on account of the
connection which the ideas have be-
tween themselves, and we have only
sought it out to get rid of it at once.

What is overcoming the enemy ?
Always simply the destruction of his
military force, whether it be by death, or
woimds, or any means; whether it be
completely or only to such a degree that
he can no longer continue the contest ;
therefore as long as we set aside all
special objects of combats, we may look
upon the complete or partial destruction
of the enemy as the only object of all
combats.

Now we maintain that in the majority
of cases, and especially in great battles,
the special object by which the battle is
individualised and bound up with the
great whole is only a weak modification
of that general object, or an ancillary
obj ect bound up with it, important enough
to individualise the battle, but always
only insignificant in comparison with

126

ON WAR.

[book IV.

that general object ; so that if that an-
cillary object alone should be obtained,
only an unimportant part of the purpose
of the combat is fulfilled. If this asser-
tion is correct, then we see that the
notion, according to which the destruc-
tion of the enemy's force is only the
means, and something else always the
object, can only be true in form, but that
it would lead to false condusions if we
did not recollect that just this destruc-
tion of the enemy's force is comprised in
that object, and that this object is only
a weak modification of it.

Forgetfulness of this led to completely
false views before the wars of the last
period, and created tendencies as well as
fragments of systems, in which theory
thought it raised itself so much the more
above handicraft, the less it supposed
itself to stand in need of the use of the
real instrument, that is the destruction of
the enemy's force.

Certainly such a system could not have
arisen unless supported by other false
suppositions, and unless in place of the
destruction of the enemy, other things
had been substituted to which an efficacy
WM ascribed which did not belong to
them. We shall attack these falsehoods
whenever occasion requires, but we could
not treat of the combat without claiming
for it the real importance and value
which belong to it, and giving warning
against the errors to whi(£ merely formal
truth might lead.

But now how shall we manage to show
that in most cases, and in those of most
importance, the destruction of the enemy's
army is the chief thing ? How shall we
manage to combat that extremely subtle
idea, which supposes it possible, through
the use of a special artificial form, to effect
by a small direct destruction of the
enemy's forces a much greater destruction
indirectly, or by means of small but ex-
tremely well directed blows to produce
such paralysation of the enemy's forces,
such a command over the enemy's wiU,

thatthismode of proceeding is to be viewed
as a great shortening of the road ? Un-
doubtedly a battle at one point is of more
value than at another. Undoubtedly
there is a scientific arrangement of battles
amongst themselves, even in strategy,
which is in fact nothing but that art ;
to deny that is not our intention, but we
assert that the direct destruction of the
enemy's forces is everywhere predomi-
nating ; we contend here for the over-
ruling importance of this destructive
principle and nothing else.

We must, however, call to mind that
we are now engaged with strategy, not
with tactics, therefore we do not speak
of the means which the former may have
of destroying at a small expense a large
body of the enemy's forces, but that
under direct destruction we imderstand
the tactical results, and that, therefore,
our assertion is that only great tactical
results can lead to great strategical ones,
or, as we have already once before
more distinctly expressed it, the tcu^tical
successes are of paramount importance
in the conduct of war.

The proof of this assertion seems to us
simple enough, it lies in the time which
every complicated (artificial) combination
requires. The'question whether a simple
attack, or one more carefully prepared,
more artificial, will producegreater efiTects,
may undoubtedly be decided ia favour of
the latter as long as the enemy is assumed
to be an object quite passive. But every
carefully combined attack requires more
time, and this time must be allowed
without a counterstroke on one of the
parts upsetting the whole in the prepara-
tions tor its execution. Now, if the
enemy should decide upon some simpler
attack, which can be executed in a shorter
time, then he gains the initiative, and des-
troys the efPect of the great plan. There-
fore, along with the expediency of a com-
plicated attack we must consider all the
dangers which we run during its pre-
paration, and we should only adopt it if

CHAP. IV.]

THE COMBAT IN GENERAL,

127

there is no reason to fear that the enemy
will disconcert onr scheme by a shorter
one. Whenever this is the case we must
ourselves choose the shorter, and lower
our views in this sense as far as the
character, the relations of the enemy,
and other circumstances may render
necessary. If we quit the weai impres-
sions of abstract ideas and descend to the
region of practical life, then it is evident
that a bold, courageous, resolute enemy
wUl not let us have time for wide-reaching
skilful combinations, and it is just against
such a one we should require skill the
most. By this it appears to us that the
advantage of simple and direct results
over those that are complicated is con-
clusively shown.

Our opinion is not on that accotmt that
the simple blow is the best, but that we
must not lift the arm too far for the room
given to strike, and that this condition
will always lead more to direct conflict the
more warlike our opponent is. There-
fore, far from making it our aim to gain
upon the enemy by complicated plans,
we must rather seek always to be before-
hand with him just in the opposite
direction.

If we seek for the lowest foundation
stones of these converse propositions we
And that it is in the one, ability, in the
other, courf^e. Now, there is something
veiy attractive in the notion that a

moderate degree of courage joined to
great ability will produce greater effects
tiian moderate ability with great courage.
But unless we suppose these elements in
a disproportionate relation, not logical,
we have no right to assign to ability this
advantage over courage in a field which
is called danger, and which must be
regarded as the true domain of courage.

After this abstract view we shall only
add that experience, very far from leading
to a different conclusion, is rather the
sole cause which has impelled us in this
direction, and given rise to such reflec-
tions.

Whoever reads history with a mind free
from prejudice cannot fail to arrive at a
conviction that of all military virtues
energy in the conduct of operations has
always contributed the most to glory and
success of arms.

How we make good our principle of
regarding the destruction of the enemy's
force as the principal object, not only in
the war as a whole but also in each
separate combat, and how that principle
suits all the forms and conditions
necessarily demanded by the relations
out of which war springs, the sequel will
show. For the present all that we desired
was to uphold its general importance,
and with this result we return again to
the combat.

CHAPTER IV.

THE COMBAT IN GENERAL.— CONTINUATION.

In the last chapter we stopped short at
the destruction of the enemy being the
object of the combat, and we have sought
to show by a special consideration of

the point that this is true in the majority
of cases, and in respect to the most
important battles, because the destruction
of the enemy's army is always the pre-

128

ON WAR.

[book 17.

ponderating object in war. 9he other
objects which may be mixed nip with this
destructioii of the enemy's force, and may
have more or less influence, we shaU
describe generally in the next chapter,
and become better acquainted with by
degrees afterwards ; here we divest the
combat of them entirely, and look upon
the destruction of the enemy as the
complete and sufficient object of any
combat.

What are we now to imderstand by
destruction of the enemy's army ? A dimi-
nution of it relatively greater than that
on our own side. If we have a great
superiority in numbers over the enemy,
then naturally the same absolute
amount of loss on both sides is for
us a smaller one than for him, and
consequently may be regarded in itself as
an advantage. As we are here consider-
ing the combat as divested of all (other)
objects, therefore we must also exclude
from our consideration that one where
the combat is used only indirectly for a
greater destruction of the enemy's force ;
consequentiy also only that direct gain
which has been made in the mutual pro-
cess of destruction is to be regarded as the
object, for this is an absolute gain, which
runs through the whole campaign, and
at the end of it will always appear as pure
gain. But every other kind of victory
over our opponent will either have its
motive in other objects, which we have
completely excluded here, or it will only
yield a temporary relative advantage. An
example wHl mi^e this plain.

If by a skilful disposition we have
reduced our opponent to such dilemma,
that he cannot continue the combat with-
out danger, and after some resistance he
retires, then we may say, that we have
conquered him at that point; but if in
this victory we have expended just as
many forces as the enemy, then in
closing the account of the campaign, there
is no gain remaining from this victory,
if such a result can be called a victory.

Therefore the overcoming the enemy, that
is, placing him in such a position that he
must give up the fight, counts for nothing
in itself, and for that reason cannot come
under the definition of object, and so
there remains then, as we have said,
nothing over except the direct g^n
which we have made in the process of
destruction ; but to this belong not only
the losses which have taken place in the
course of the combat, but also those
which, after the withdrawal of the con-
quered part, take place as direct con-
sequences of the same.

Now it is known by experience, that
the losses in physical forces in the course
of a battie seldom present a g^at dif-
ference between victor and vanquished
respectively, often none at all, sometimes
even one bearing an inverse relation,
and that the most decisive losses on the
side of the vanquished only .conmience
with the retreat, that is, those which the
conqueror does not share with him. The
weak remains of battalions already in
disorder are cut down by cavalry, ex-
hausted men strew the ground, disabled
guns and broken caissons are abandoned,
others in the bad state of the roads can-
not be removed quick enough, and are
captured by the enemy's troops during
the night, numbers lose their way, and
fall defenceless into the enemy's hands,
and thus the victory mostly gains bodily
substance after it is already decided.
Here would be a paradox, if it did
not solve itself in the following manner.

The loss in physical force is not the
only one which the two sides sufiTer in
the course of the combat ; the moral
forces also are shaken, broken, and go to
ruin.* It is not only the loss in men,
horses and guns, but in order, courage,
confidence, cohesion and plan, which
come into consideration when it is a
question whether the fight can be still
continued or not. It is principally the
moral forces which decide here, and it
was these alone in all cases in which

cnAP. IV.]

TEE COMBAT IN GENERAL.

129

the conqueror has lost just as much as
the conquered.

The comparatiYe relation of the phy-
sical losses is difficult to estimate in a
hattle, but not so the relation of the
moral. Two things principally make it
known* The one is the loss of the ground
on which the fight has taken place, the
other the superiority of the enemy's re-
serve. The more our reserves have
diminished as compared with those of
the enemy, the more force we have used
to maintain the equilibrium ; in this at
once an evident proof of the moral
superiority of the enemy is given which
seldom fails to stir up in the soul of the
commander a certain bitterness of feeling,
and a sort of contempt for his own
troops. But the principal thing is, that
men who have been engaged for a long
continuance of time are more or less like
dead cinders; their ammunition is con-
sumed ; they have melted away to a cer-
tain extent; physical and moral energies
are exhausted, perhaps their courage bro-
ken as welL Such a force, irrespective of
the diminution in its number, if viewed as
an organic whole, is veiy different from
what it was before the combat ; and thus
it is that the loss of moral force may be
measured by the reserves that have
been used as if it were on a foot rule.

Lost grotmd and want of fresh reserves,
are, therefore, usually the principal causes
which determine a retreat; but at the
same time we by no means exclude or
desire to throw in the shade other rea-
sons, which may lie in the interdepen-
dence of parts of the army, in the gene-
ral plan, etc.

Every combat is therefore the bloody
and destructive measuring of the strength
of forces, physical and moral; whoever
at the close has the greatest amount of
both left is the conqueror.

In the combat the loss of moral force
has been the chief cause of the decision ;
after that was given, this loss continued
to increase until it reached its culminating

point at the close of the whole act ; it is
therefore also the means of making that
gain in the destruction of the- enemy's
force which was the real object of the
combat. The loss of order and unity
often makes the resistance of individual
parts very injurious ; the spirit of the
whole is broken; the original excitement
about losing or winning, through which
danger was forgotten, is spent, and to the
majority danger now appears no longer
an appeal to their courage, but rathei
the endurance of a cruel punishment.
Thus the instrument in the first moment
of the enemy's victory is weakened and
blunted, and therefore no longer fit to
repay danger by danger.

This period the conqueror must use in
order to make the real gain in the de-
struction of physical forces ; only so much
of these as he attains remains secure to
him ; the moral forces of the enemy will
recover themselves by degrees, order will
be restored, courage will revive, and in
the majority of cases there remains only
a small part of the superiority obtained,
often none at all, and in some cases,
although rarely, the spirit of revenge and
intensified hostility may bring about an
opposite result. On the other hand,
whatever is gained in killed, wounded,
and prisoners, and guns captured, can
never disappear from the account.

The losses in a battle consist more in
killed and wounded; those after the
battle, more in artillery taken and
prisoners. The first the conqueror shares
with the conquered, more or less, but the
second not; and for that reason they
usually only take place on one side of the
conflict, at least, they are considerably in
excess on one side.

ArtUlery and prisoners are therefore at
all times regarded as the true trophies of
victory, as well as its measure, because
through these things its extent is declared
beyond a doubt. Even the degree of moral
superiority may be better judged of by
them than by any other relation, especially

130

ON WAR.

[book IV.

if the number of killed and wounded is
compared therewith; and here arisen a
new power increasing the moral effects.

We have said that the moral forces,
beaten to the ground in the battle and
in the immediately succeeding move-
ments, recover themselves gradually, and
often bear no traces of injury; this is
the case with small divisions of the whole,
less frequently with large divisions; it
may, however, also be the case with the
main army, but seldom or never in the
state or government to which the army
belongs. These estimate the situation
more impartially and from a more ele-
vated point of view, and recognise in the
number of trophies taken by the enemy,
and their relation to the number of killed
and wounded, only too easily and well
the measure of their own weakness and
inefficiency.

In point of fact, the lost balance of
moral power must not be treated lightly
because it has no absolute value, and be-
cause it does not of necessity appear in
all cases in the amount of the results at
the final close ; it may become of such
excessive weight as to bring down every-
thing with an irresistible force. On that
account it may often become a great aim
of the operations of which we shall speak
elsewhere. Here we have still to examine
some of its fundamental relations.

The moral effect of a victory increases,
not merely in proportion to the extent of
the forces engaged, but in a progressive
ratio — that is to say, not only in extent,
but also in its intensity. In a beaten
division order is easily restored. As a
single frozen limb is easily revived by
the rest of the body, so the courage of a
defeated division is easily raised again
by the courage of the rest of the army as
soon as it rejoins it. If, therefore, the
effects of a small victory are not com-
pletely done away with, still they are
partly lost to the enemy. This is not the
case if the army itself sustains a groat
defeat ; then one with the other fall to-

gether. A great fire attains quite a dif-
ferent heat from several small ones.

Another relation which determines the
moral value of a victory is the numerical
relation of the forces which have been in
conflict with each other. To beat many
with a few is not only a double success, but
shows also a greater, especially a more
general superiority, which the conquered
must always be fearful of encountering
again. At the same time this influence
is in reality hardly observable in such a
case. In the moment of real action, the
notions of the actual strength of the
enemy are generally so uncertain, the
estimate of our own commonly so incor-
rect, that the party superior in numbers
either does not admit the disproportion,
or is very far from admitting the full
truth, owing to which, he evades almost
entirely the moral disadvantages which
would spring from it. It is only here-
after in history that the truth, long
suppressed through ignorance, vanity,
or a wise discretion, makes its appear-
ance, and then it certainly casts a lustre
on the army and its leader, but it
can then do nothing more by its moral
influence for events long past.

If prisoners and captured guns aro
those things by which the victory prin-
cipally gains substance, its true crystalli-
sations, then the plan of the battle should
have those things specially in view ;
the destruction of the enemy by death
and wounds appears here as a pure
means.

How far this may influence the dis-
positions in the battle is not an affair of
strategy, but the appointment itself of
the battJe is already in connection with
it, namely, by the measures for security
of our own rear, and threatening the
enemy's. On this point, the number of
prisoners and captured guns depends
very much, and it is a point which, in
many cases, tactics alone cannot satisfy,
particularly if the strategic relations are
too much in opposition to it

CHAP. IV.]

TEE COMBAT m GENERAL.

131

The danger of having to fight on two
sidee, and the still more dangerous posi-
tion of having no line of retreat left open,
paralyse the movements and the power
of resistance, and influence the alterna-
tive of victory or defeat ; further, in case
of defeat, they increase the loss, often
raising it to its extreme point, that is, to
destruction. Therefore, the rear being
endangered makes defeat more probable,
and, at the same time, more decisive.

From this arises, in the whole conduct
of the war, and especially in great and
small combats, a perfect instinct, which is
the security of our own line of retreat and
the seizure of the enemy's; this follows
from the conception of victory, which, as
we have seen, is something beyond mere
slaughter.

In this effort we see, therefore, the
first immediate purpose in the combat,
and one which is quite universal. No
combat is imaginable in which this effort,
either in its double or single form, is not
to go hand in hand with the plain and
simple stroke of force. Even the smallest
troop will not throw itself upon its enemy
without thinking of its line of retreat,
and, in most cases, it wiU have an eye
upon that of the enemy.

We should have to digress to show
how often this instinct is prevented from
going the direct road, how often it must
yield in the difficulties arising from
more important considerations : we shall,
therefore, rest contented with affirming it
to be a general natural law of the combat.

It is, therefore, active ; presses every-
where with its natural weight, and so
becomes the pivot on which almost all
tactical and strategic manoeuvres turn.

If we now take a look at the concep-
tion of victory as a whole, we find in it
three elements :—

1. The greater loss of the enemy in
physical power.

2. In moral power.

3. His open avowal of this by the re-
linquishment of his intentions.

The returns made up on each side of
losses in killed and wounded, are never
exact, seldom truthful, and in most cases,
full of intentional misrepresentations.
Even the statement of the number of tro-
phies is seldom to be quite depended on ;
consequently, when it is not considerable
it may also cast a doubt even on the
reality of the victory. Of the loss in
moral forces there is no reliable measuroi
except in the trophies: therefore, in
many cases, the giving up the contest
is the only real evidence of the victory.
It is, therefore, to be regarded as a
confession of inferiority — as the lowering
of the flag, by which, in this particular
instance, right and superiority are con-
ceded to the enemy, and this degree of
humiliation and disgrace, which, how-
ever, must be distinguished from all
the other moral consequences of the
loss of equilibrium, is an essential
part of the victory. It is this part
alone which acts upon the public opinion
outside the army, upon the people and
the government in both oelligerent
states, and upon all others in any way
concerned.

But now the giving up the general
object is not quite identical with the
quitting the field of battle, even when the
battle has been very obstinate and long
kept up ; no one says of advanced posts,
when they retire after an obstinate combat,
that they have g^ven up their object; even
in combats aimed at the destruction of the
enemy's army, the retreat from the battle-
field is not always to be regarded as a
relinquishment of this aim, as fbr instance,
in retreats planned beforehand, in which
the ground is disputed foot by foot ; all
this belongs to that part of our subject
where we shall speak of the separate
object of the combat; here we only wish
to draw attention to the fact that in most
cases the giving up the object is very
difficult to distinguish from the retire-
ment from the battle-field, and that the
impression produced by the latter, both

132

ON JTAR.

[book it.

in and out of the anny, is not to be
treated lightly.

For genereds and armies whose repu-
tation is not madO; this is in itself one of
the difficulties in many operations, justi-
fied by circumstances when a succession
of combats, each ending in retreat, may
appear as a succession of defeats, without
being so really, and when that appear-
ance may exercise a very depressing
influence. It is impossible for the re-
treating general by making known his
real intentions to prevent the moral
efifect everywhere, for to do that with
effect he must disclose his plans com-
pletely, which of course would run counter
to his principal interests to too great a
degree.

In order to draw attention to the
special importance of this conception of
victoiy, we shall only refer to the battle
of Boor, the trophies from which were not
important (a few thousand prisoners and
twenty guns), and where Frederick pro-
claimed his victory by remaining for five
days after on the field of battle, although
his retreat into Silesia had been pre-
viously determined on, and was a measure
natural to his whole situation. According
to his own account, he thought he
would hasten a peace by the moral effect
of his victory. Now although a couple

of other successes were likewise required,
namely the battle at Katholisch Hen-
nersdorf, in Lusatia, and the battle of
Kesseldorf, before this peace took place,
still we cannot say that the moral effect
of the battle of Soor was nil.

If it is chiefly the moral force which
is shaken by the victory, and if the num-
ber of trophies by that means mounts up
to an unusual height, then the lost com-
bat becomes a rout, which therefore is
not the exact opposite of every victory.
As the moral force of the conquered is
shaken to a much greater degree in
such a defeat, there often ensues a com-
plete incapability of further resistance,
and the whole action consists of giving
way, that is of flight.

Jena and Belle Alliance were routs,
but not so Borodino.

Although without pedantry we can
here give no single line of separation,
because the difference between the things
is one of degrees, yet still the retention
of the conception is essential as a central
point to give clearness to our theoretical
ideas, and it is a want in our terminology
that for a victory over the enemy tanta-
mount to a rout, and a conquest of the
enemy only tantamount to a simple
victory, there is only one and the same
word to use.

CHAPTER V.

ON THE SIGNIFICATION OF THE COMBAT.

Having in the preceding chapter ex-
amined the combat in its absolute form,
as the miniature picture of the whole
war, as it were, we now turn to the re-
lations which as a part of a great whole
it bears to the other parts. First we en-

quire what is more precisely the significa-
tion of a combat.

As war is nothing else but a mutual
process of destruction, then the most
natural answer in conception, and perhaps
also in reality, appears to be that all

CHAP, v.]

ON THE SIGNIFICATION OF TEE COMBAT

133

the powers of each party unite in one great
vohime, and all results in one great shock
of these masses. There is certainly much
truth in this idea, and it seems upon the
whole to he very advisable that we should
adhere to it, and that we should on that
account look upon small combats at first
only as necessary loss, like the shavings
from a carpenter's plane. Still however,
the thing is never to be settled so
easily.

That a multiplication of combats should
arise from a fractioning of forces is a
matter of course, and the more immedi-
ate objects of separate combats will
therefore come before us in the subject
of a fractioning of forces ; but these ob-
jects, and together with them, the whole
mass of combats may in a general way
be brought under certain classes, and
the knowledge of these classes will con-
tribute to make our observations more
intelligible.

Destruction of the enemy's military
forces is in reality the object of all com-
bats ; but other objects maybe joined to
^at, and these other objects may be at
the same time predominant; we must
therefore draw a distinction between
those in which the destruction of the
enemy's forces is the principal object,
and those in which it is more the means.
Besides the destruction of the. enemy's
force, the possession of a place or the
posession of some object may be the
general motive for a combat, and it may
be either one of these alone or several
together, in which case still usually one
is the principal motive. Now the two
principal forms of War, the offensive
and defensive, of which we shall shortly
speak, do not modify the first of these
motives, but they certainly do modify the
other two, and therefore if we arrange
them in a scheme they would appear
thus : —

Offensive. Defensive.

1. Destruction of 1. Destruction of
enemy's force. enemy's force.

Offensive. Defensive.

2. Conquest of a 2. Defence of a
place. place.

3. Conquest of 3. Defence of some
some object. object.

These motives, however, do not seem
to embrace completely the whole of the
subject, if we recollect that there are
reconnaissances and demonstrations, in
which plainly none of these three points
is the object of the combat. In reality
we must, therefore, on this account be
allowed a fourth class. Strictly speaking,
in reconnaissances in which we wish the
enemy to show himself, in alarms by
which we wish to wear him out, in
demonstrations by which we wish to
' prevent his leaving some point or to draw
him off to another, the objects are all
such as can only be attained indirectly
and under the pretext of one of the three
objects specified in the tables usually of the
second ; for the enemy whose aim is to
reconnoitre must draw up his force as if
he really intended to attack and defeat
us, or drive us off, etc., etc. But this
pretended object is not the real one, and
our present question is only as to the
latter ; therefore, we must to the above
three objects of the offensive further add
a fourth, which is to lead the enemy to
make a false move, or, in other words, en-
gage him in a sham fight. That offensive
means only are conceivable in connection
with this object, lies in the nature of the
thing.

On the other hand we must observe
that the defence of a place may be of two
kinds, either absolute, if as a general
question the point is not to be given up, or
relative if it is .only required for a certain
time. The latter happens perpetually in
the combats of advanced posts and rear
guards.

That the nature of these different
intentions of a combat must have an
essential influence on the dispositions
which are its preliminaries, is a thing
clear in itself. We act differently if ouc

134

ON WAR.

[book IV.

object is merely to drive an enemy's post
out of its place from what we should if
our object was to beat him completely ;
differently, if we mean to defend a place
to the last extremity from what we should
do if our design is only to detain the
enemy for a certain time. In the first
case we trouble ourselves little about the
line of retreat, in the latter it is the
principal point, &c.

But these reflections belong properly
to tactics, and are only introduced here
by way of example for the sake of
greater clearness. What strategy has
to say on the different objects of the
combat will appear in the chapters

which touch upon these objects. Here
we have only a few general observa-
tions to make, first, that the importance
of the object decreases nearly in the
order as they stand above, there-
fore then, that the first of these objects
must always predominate in the great
battle ; lastly, that the two last in a
defensive battle are in reality such as
yield no fruit, they are, that is to say,
purely negative, and can, therefore, only
be serviceable, indirectly, by facilitating
something else which is positive. It
f«, therefore^ a bad sign of the strategic
situation if battles of this kind become too
frequent.

CHAPTER VI.

DURATION OF THE COMBAT.

If we consider the combat no longer
in itseK but in relation to the other forces
of war, then its duration acquires a special
importance.

This duration is to be regarded to a
certain extent as a second subordinate
success. For the conqueror the combat
can never be finished too quickly, for the
vanquished, it can never last too long.
A speedy victory is a higher power of
victory, a tardy decision is, on the side of
the defeated, some compensation for the
loss.

This is in general true, but it acquires
a practical importance in its application
to those combats, the object of which is
a relative defence.

Here the whole success often lies in
the mere duration. This is the reason
why we have included it amongst the
strategic elements.

The duration of a combat is necessarily

bound up with its essential relations.
These relations are absolute magnitude
of force, relation of force and (of the
different) arms mutually, and nature of
the country. 20,000 men do not wear
themselves out upon one another as
quickly as 2,000: we cannot resist an
enemy double or three times our strength
as long as one of the same strength ;
a cavalry combat is decided sooner than
an infantry combat; and a combat
between infantry only, quicker than if
there is artillery as well; in hills and
forests we cannot advance as quickly as
on a level countiy; all this is dear
enough.

Prom this follows, therefore, that
strength, relation of the three arms, and
position, must be considered if the com-
bat is to fulfil an object by its duration ;
but to set up this rule was of less import-
ance to us in our present considerations

1^^-^

CHAP. VII.]

DECISION OF TEE COMBAT,

135

than to connect with it at once the chief
results which experience gives us on
the subject

Even the resistance of an ordinary di-
vision of 8,000 to 10,000 men of all arms
even opposed to an enemy considerably
superior in numbers, will last severdi
hours, if the advantages of country are
not too preponderating, and if the enemy
is only a little, or not at all, superior in
numbers, the combat will last half a day.
A corps of three or four divisions will
prolong it to double the time ; an army
of 80,000 or 100,000 to three or four

times. Therefore the* masses may be
left to themselves for that length of time,
and no separate combat takes place if
within that time other forces can be
brought up, whose co-operation mingles
then at once into one stream with the
results of the combat which has taken
place.

These calculations are the result of ex-
perience ; but it is important to us at the
same time to characterise more particu-
larly the moment of the decision, and
consequently the termination.

CHAPTER Vll.

DECISION OF THE COMBAT.

No battle is decided in a single mo-
ment, although in every battle there are
moments of g^eat importance, which
chiefly bring about the result. The loss
of a battle is, therefore, a gradual falling
of the scale. But there is in every com-
bat a point of time when it may bo re-
garded as decided, in such a way that
the renewal of tlio fight would be a new
battle, not a continuation of the old one.
To have a clear notion on this point of
time is very important, in order to be
able to decide whether, with the prompt
assistance of reinforcements, the combat
can again be resumed with advantage.

Often in combats which are beyond
restoration new forces are sacrificed in
often through neglect the de-

vain

cision has not been turned when it might
easily have been done. Here are two
examples, which could not be more to the
point :

When the Prince of Hohonlohc, in

1806, at Jena, with 35,000 men opposed
to from 60,000 to 70,000, under Buona-
parte, had accepted battle, and lost it —
but lost it in such a way that the 35,000
might be regarded as dissolved — General
Biichel imdertook to renew the fight
with about 12,000 ; the consequence was
that in a moment his force was scattered
in like manner.

On the otlier hand, on the same day at
Auerstadt, the Prussians maintained a
combat with 25,000, against Davoust,
who had 28,000, until mid-day, without
success, it is true, but still without the
force being reduced to a state of dis-
solution without even greater loss than
the enemy, who was very deficient in
cavalry ; — and they neglected to use the
reserve of 18,000, under General Kalk-
reuth, to restore the battle which, under
these circumstances, it would have been
impossible to lose. —

Each combat is a whole in which the

mm

136

ON WAR.

[book IV.

partial combats combine themselves into
one total result. In this total result lies
the decision of the combat. This suc-
cess need not be exactly a victory such
as we have denoted in the sixth chapter,
for often the preparations for that have
not been made, often there is no oppor-
tunity if the enemy gives way too soon,
and in most cases the decision, even when
the resistance has been obstinate, takes
place before such a success as essentially
comes up to the idea of a victory.

We therefore ask, Which is commonly
the moment of the decision, that is to say,
that moment when a fresh, effective, of
course not disproportionate force, can no
longer turn a disadvantageous battle ?

If we pass over false attacks^ which in
accordance with their nature are properly
without decision, then

1. If the possession of a moveable
object was the object of the combat, the
loss of the same is always the decision.

2. If the possession of ground was the
object of the combat, then the decision
generally lies likewise in the loss of that ;
still* not always, that is only if this
ground is of peculiar strength, ground
which is easy to pass over, however
important it may be in other respects,
can be re-taken without much danger.

3. But in all other cases, when these
two circumstances have not already
decided the combat, therefore, particularly
in case the destruction of the enemy's
force is the principal object, the decision
lies in the moment when the conqueror
ceases to feel himself in a state of
disintegration, that is, of unserviceable-
ness to a certain extent, therefore when
there is no further advantage in using
the successive efforts spoken of in the
twelfth chapter of the third book. On
this ground wo have given the strategic
unity of the battle its place here.

A battle, therefore, in which the
assailant has not lost his condition of
order and perfect efficiency at all, or, at
least, only in a small part of his force,

whilst our forces are, more or less, disor-
ganised throughout, is also not to be
retrieved ; and just as little if the enemy
has recovered his efficiency.

The smaller, therefore, that part of a
force is which has really been engaged,
the greater that portion is which as re-
serve has contributed to the result only
by its presence, so much the less will
any new force of the enemy wrest again
the victory from our hands, and that
commander who carries out to the fur-
thest with his army the principle of con-
ducting the combat with the greatest
economy of forces, and making the most
of the moral effect of strong reserves,
goes the surest way to victory. We
must allow that the French, in modem
times, especially when led by Buonaparte,
have shown a thorough mastery in this.

Further, the moment when the crisis-
stage of the combat ceases with the con-
queror, and his original state of order is
restored, takes place sooner the smaller
the whole is. A picket of cavalry pur-
suing an enemy at full gallop will in a
few minutes resume its proper order, and
the crisis also ceases : a whole regiment
of cavalry requires for this a longer time ;
it lasts still longer with infantry, if ex-
tended in single lines of skirmishers, and
longer again with divisions of all arms,
when it happens by chance that one part
has taken one direction and another part
another direction, and the combat has
therefore caused a loss of the order of for-
mation, which usually becomes still worse
from no part knowing exactly where the
other is. Thus, therefore, ^e point of
time when the conqueror has collected
the instruments he has been using, and
which are mixed up and partly out of
order, the moment when he has in some
measure rearranged them and put them
in their proper places, and thus brought
the battle-workshop into a little order,
this moment, we say, is always later, the
greater the total force.

Again, this moment comes later if night

CHAP. VII.]

DECISION OF TEE CO'MBAT

137

OTertakes the conqueror in the crisis, and,
lastly, it comes later if the country is bro-
ken and thickly wooded. But with regard
to these two points, we must observe that
night is also a great means of protec-
tion, and it is only seldom that circum-
stances favour the expectation of a suc-
cessful result from a night attack, as on
the 10th March, 1814, at Laon, where
York against Marmont gives us an exam-
ple completely in place here. In the
same way a wooded and broken country
will afford protection against a reaction
to those who are engaged in the long
crisis of victory. Both, therefore, the
night as well as the wooded and broken
country are obstacles which make the
renewal of the same battle more difficult
instead of facilitating it.

Hitherto, we have considered assistance
arriving for the losing side as a mere
increase of force, therefore, as a reinforce-
ment coming up directly from the rear,
which is the most usual case. But the
case is quite different if these fresh forces
come upon the enemy in flank or rear.

On the effect of flank or rear attacks,
80 far as they boLong to strategy, we shall
speak in another place : such an one as
we have here in view, intended for the
restoration of the combat, belongs chiefly
to tactics, and is only mentioned because
we are here speaking of tactical results,
our ideas, therefore, must trench upon
the province of tactics.

By directing a force against the enemy's
flank and rear its efi&cacy may be much
intensified ; but this is so far from being
a necessary result always that the efficacy
may on the other hand be just as much
weakened. The circumstances imder
which the combat has taken place decide
upon this part of the plan as weU as upon
every other, without our being able to
enter thereupon here. But, at the same
time, there are in it two things of impor-
tance for our subject: first, jUxnk and rear
attacks have, as a rule, a mors favourable
effect on the consequences of the decision than

upon the decision itself. Now as concerns
the retrieving a battle, the first thing to
be arrived at above all is a favourable
decision and not magnitude of success.
In this view one would therefore think
that a force which comes to re-establish
our combat is of less assistance if it falls
upon the enemy in flank and rear, there-
fore separated from us, than if it joins -
itself to us directly: certainly, cases are
not wanting where it is so, but we must
say that the majority are on the other side,
and they are so on account of the second
point which is here important to us.

This second point is the moral effect of
the surprise^ which, as a ruU, a reinforce-
ment coming up to re-establish a combat has
generally in its favour. Now the effect of
a surprise is always heightened if it takes
place in the flank or rear, and an enemy
completely engaged in the crisis of victory
in his extended and scattered order, is
less in a state to counteract it. Who does
not feel that an attack in flank or rear,
which at the commencement of the battle,
when the forces, are concentrated and pre-
pared for such an event, would be of little
importance, gains quite another weight
in the last moment of the combat.

We must, therefore, at once admit that
in most cases a reinforcement coming up
on the flank or rear of the enemy will
be more efficacious, will be like the same
weight at the end of a longer lever, and
therefore that under these circumstances,
we may undertake to restore the battle
with the same force which in a direct way
would be quite insufficient. Here results
almost defy calculation, because the
moral forces gain completely the ascen-
dancy. Here is, then, the right field for
boldness and daring.

The eye must, Uierefore, be directed
on all these objects, all these moments of
co-operating forces must be taken into
consideration if we have to decide in
doubtful cases whether or not it is still
possible to restore a combat which has
taken an unfavourable turn.

138

ON WAR.

[book IV.

If the combat is to be regarded as not
yet ended, then the new contest which is
opened by the arrival of assistance be*
comes one with the former ; therefore they
flow together into one common result,
and the first disadvantage vanishes then
completely out of the calculation. But
this is not the case if the combat was
already decided ; then there are two
results separate from each other. Now
if the assistance which arrives is only
of a relative strength, that is, if it is not
in itself alone a match for the enemy,
then a favourable result is hardly to be
expected from this second combat: but
if it is so strong that it can undertake
the second combat without regard to the
first, then it may be able by a favourable
issue to compensate or even overbalance
the first combat, but never to make it
disappear altogether from the account.

At the battle of Kunersdorf, Frederick
the Great at the first onset carried the
left of the Bussian position, and took 70
pieces of artillery; at the end of the
battle both were lost again, and the
whole result of the first combat was
wiped out of the account. Had it been
possible to stop at the first success, and
to put off the second part of the battle to
the coming day, then, even if the king
had lost it, the advantages of the first
would always have been a set off to the
second.

But when a battle proceeding disad-
vantageously is arrested and turned be-
fore its conclusion, its minus result on
our side not only disappears from the
account, but also becomes the foimdation
of a greater victory. If, for instance,
we picture to ourselves exactly the tac-
tical course of the battle, we may easily
see that until it is finally concluded all
successes in partial combats are only de-
cisions in suspense, which by the capital
decision may not only be destroyed, but
changed into the opposite. The more
our f|^rces have suffered, the more will
the enemy have expended on his side ;

the greater, therefore, also will be the
crisis for the enemy, and the more con-
siderable will be the superiority of our
fresh troops. If now the total result
turns in our favour, if we wrest from the
enemy the field of battle and recover all
the trophies again, then will all the forces
which he has sacrificed in obtcuning them
become sheer gain for us, and our former
defeat becomes a stepping stone to a
greater triumph. The most brilliant
feats which with victory the enemy would
have so highly prized that the loss of
forces which they cost would have been
disregarded, leave nothing now behind
but regret at the sacrifice of those forces.
Such is the alteration which the magic
of victory and the curse of defeat pro-
duces in the specific weight of the same
elements.

Therefore, even if we are decidedly
superior in strength, and are able to re-
pay the enemy his victory by a greater
still, it is always better to forestall the
conclusion of a disadvantageous combat,
if it is of proportionate importance, so
as to turn its course rather than to deliver
a second battle.

Field-marshal Daun attempted in the
year 1760 to come to the assistance of
General Laudon at Leignitz, whilst the
battle lasted ; but when he failed in that
he did not attack the king next day, al-
though he did not want for force to do so.

For these reasons serious combats of
advanced guards which precede a battle
are to be looked upon only as necessary
evils, and when not necessary they are
to be avoided.

We have still another conclusion to
examine.

If a regular pitched battle is a set-
tled thing it does not constitute a motive
for determining on a new one. The
determination for this new one must pro-
ceed from the other relations. This con-
clusion, however, is opposed by a moral
force, which we must take into account:
it is the fooling of rage and revenge.

C3IIAP. vni.] MUTUAL UNDERSTANDING AS TO A BATTLE.

189

From the oldest field-marshal to the
youngest drummer-boy this feeling is
general, and, therefore, troops are never
in better spirits for fighting than when
they have to wipe out a stain. This is,
however, only on the supposition that
the beaten portion is not too great in pro-
portion to the whole, because otherwise
the above feeling is lost in that of power -
lessness.

There is therefore a very natural
tendency to use this moral force to repair
the disaster on the spot, and on that
account chiefly to seek another battle if
other circumstances permit. It then lies
in the nature of the case that this second
battle must be an offensive one.

In the catalogue of battles of second-
rate importance there are many examples
to be found of such retaliatoi^r batlles ;
but great battles have generally too many
other determining causes to be broaght
on by this weaker motive.

Such a feeling must undoubtedly have
led the noble Bliicher with his third
corps to the field of battle on the 14th
February, 1814, when the other two had
been beaten three days before at Mont-
mirail. Had he known that he would
have come upon Buonaparte in person,
then, naturally, preponderating reasons
would have determined him to put off
his revenge to another day : but he
hoped to revenge himself on Marmont,
and instead of gaining the reward of
his desire of honourable satisfaction, he

suffered the penalty of his erroneous
calculation.

On the duration of the combat and the
moment of its decision depend the dis-
tances from each other at which those
masses should be placed which are in-
tended to fight in conjunction with each
other. This disposition would be a tac-
tical arrangement in so far as it relates
to one and the same battle; it can,
however, only be regarded as such, pro-
vided the position of the troops is si^
compact that two separate combats cannot
be imagined, and consequently that the
space which the whole occupies can be
regarded strategically as a mere point.
But in war, cases frequently occur where
even those forces intended to fight in
unison must be so far separated from each
other that while their union for one
common combat certainly remains the
principal object, still the occurrence
of separate combats remains possible.
Such a disposition is therefore strategic.

Dispositions of this kind are: maizes
in separate masses and columns, advanced
guards, and side-corps reserves, which
are intended to serve as supports for more
than one strategic point ; &e concentra-
tion of several corps from widely ex-
tended cantonments, etc., etc. We can
see that they may constantly happen,
and constitute something like the small
change in the strategic economy, whilst
the capital battles, and all that rank with
them are the gold and silver pieces.

CHAPTER VIII.

MUTUAL UNDERSTANDING AS TO A BATTLE.

No battle can take place unless by the root of a certain phraseology used by
mutual consent ; and in this idea, which historical writers, which leads to many
constitutes the whole basis of a duel, is indefinite and false conceptions.

140

ON WAR.

[book IV.

According to the view of the writers
to whom we refer, it has frequently hap-
pened that one commander has offered
battle to the other, and the latter has not
accepted it.

But the battle is a very modified duel,
and its foundation is not merely in the
mutual wish to fight, that is consent,
but in the objects which are boimd up
with the battle : these belong always to
a greater whole^ and that so much the
more so, as even the whole war con-
sidered as a '^ combat-unit" has political
objects and conditions which belong to
a greater whole. So therefore the mere
desire to conquer each other, falls into
quite a subordinate relation, or rather it
ceases completely to be anything of itself,
and is only to be regarded as the nerve
which lends motion to the higher will.

Amongst the ancients, and then again
during the early period of standing
armies, the expression that we had of-
fered battle to the enemy in vain, had
more sense in it than it has now. By the
ancients everything was constituted with
a view to measuring each others' strength
in the open field free from anything in
the nature of a hindrance, and &e whole
art of war consisted in the organisation,
and formation of the army, that is in the
order of battle.

Now as their a^nies regularly en-
trenched themselves in their camps,
therefore the position in a camp was
regarded as something unassailable, and
a battle did not become possible until
the enemy left his camp, and placed him-
self in a practicable country, as it were
entered the lists.

If therefore we hear about Hannibal
having offered battle to Fabius in vain,
that tells us nothing more as regards the
latter than that a battle was not part of his
plan, and in itself neither proves the phy-
sical nor moral superiority of Hannibal ;
but with respect to him the expression is
still correct enough in the sense that
Hannibal roallv wished a battle.

In the early period of modem armies,
the relations were similar in great
combats and battles. That is great
masses were brought into action, and
managed throughout it by means of an
order of battle, which like a great help-
less whole more or less required a level
plain, and was neither suited to attack,
nor yet to defence in a very broken,
close or even mountainous country. The
defender therefore had here also to some
extent the means of avoiding battle.
These relations although gradually be-
coming modified, continued until the first
Silesian War, and it was not imtil the
Seven Years' War that attacks on an
enemy posted in a difiicult country gra-
dually became feasible, and of ordinary
occurrence : ground did not certainly now
cease to be a principle of strength to
those making use of its aid, but it was
no longer a charmed circle, which shut
out the natural forces of war.

During the past thirty years war has
perfected itself much more still in this
respect, and there is no longer anything
which stands in the way of a general who
is in earnest about a decision by means
of battle ; he can seek out his enemy, and
attack him : if he does not do so he can-
not take credit for having wished to
fight, and the expression he offered a
battle which his opponent did not accept,
therefore now means nothing more than
that he did not find circumstances advan-
tageous enough for a battle, an admission
which the above expression does not
suit, but which it only strives to throw
a veil over.

It is true the defensive side can no
longer refuse a battle, yet he may still
avoid it by giving up his position, and
the role with which that position was
connected : this is however half a victory
for the offensive side, and an acknowledg-
ment of his superiority for the present.

This idea in connection with the car-
tel of defiance can therefore no longer be
made use of in order by such rhodomon-

CHAP. IX.]

GENERAL ACTION.

141

tade to qualify fiie inaction of him whose
part it is to advance, that is, the of-
fensive. The defender who as long as
he does not give way, must have the
credit of willing the battle, may certainly
say, he has ofiPered it if he is not attacked,
if that is not understood of itself.

But on the other hand, he who now
wishes to, and can retreat cannot easily
be forced to give battle. Now as the
advantages to the aggressor from this
retreat are often not sufficient, and a sub-
stantial victory is a matter of urgent
necessity for him, in that way the few
means which there are to compel such an
opponent also to give battle are often
sought for and applied with particular
skill.

The principal means for this are— first
iwrraunding the enemy so as to make his
retreat impossible, or at least so difficult
that it is better for him to accept battle ;
and, secondly, the surprising him. This
last way, for which there was a motive
formerly in the extreme difficulty of all
movements, has become in modem times
very inefficacious. From the pliability
and manoeuvring capabilities of troops
in the present day, one does not hesitate
to commence a retreat even in sight

of the enemy, and only some special ob-
stacles in the nature of the country
can cause serious difficulties in* the
operation.

One example of this kind might be
the battle of Neresheim, fought by the
Archduke Charles with Moreau in the
Bauhe Alp, 11th August, 1796, merely
with a view to facilitate his retreat,
although we freely confess we have
never been able quite to understand the
argument of the renowned general and
author himself in this case.

The battle of Bosbach is another
example, if we suppose the commander
of the allied army had not really the
intention of attacking Frederick the
Great.

Of the battle of Soor, the king himself
says that it was only fought because a
retreat in the presence of the enemy
appeared to him a critical operation ; at
the same time the king has also given
other reasons for the battle.

On the whole, regular night surprises
excepted, such cases will always be of
rare occurrence, and those in which an
enemy is compelled to fight by being
surrounded, .will happen mostly to single
corps only, Hke FiiJss^ at Maxen.

CHAPTER IX.

GENERAL ACTION

ITS DECISION.

What is a general action ? A conflict of
the main body, but not an unimportant
one about a secondary object, not a mere
attempt which is given up when we see
betimes that our object is hardly within
our reach : it is a conflict with all our
might for a real victory.
Minor objects may also be mixed up

with the principal object in a general
action, and it will take many diflerent
tones of colour from the circumstances
out of which it originates, for a general
action belongs also to a greater whole
of which it is only a part ; but be-
cause the essence of war is conflict, and
the general action is the conflict of the

142

ON WAR,

[book rv.

main body, it is always to be regarded as
the real centre of gravity of the war, and
it is therefore, its distinguishing character
in general, that it happens more than any
other battle on its own accoimt.

This has an influence on the manner
of iU decision^ on the effect of the victory
contained in it, and determines the value
which theory is to assign to it as a
means to an end. On that account we
make it the subject of our special con-
sideration, and at this stage before we
enter upon the special ends which may
be bound up with it, but which do not
essentially alter its character if it really
deserves to be termed a general action.

If a general action takes place princi-
pally on its own account, the elements of
its decision must be contained in itself;
in other words, victory must be sought
for in it as long as a possibility of that
remains, and it must not, therefore, be
given up on account of secondary circum-
stances, but only and alone in the event
of the forces appearing completely in-
sufficient.

Now how is that precise moment to be
described ?

If a certain artificial formation and
cohesion of an army is the principal
condition under which the bravery of the
troops can gain a victory, as was the case
during g^eat part of the period of the
modem art of war, then the breaking up of
this formation is the decision. A beaten
wing which is put out of joint decides the
fate of all that was connected with it. If
as was the case at another time the essence
of the defence consists in an intimate alii*
ance of the army with the ground on which
it fights and its obstacles, so that army and
position are only one, then the conquest of
an essential point in this position is the de-
cision. It is said the key of the position
is lost, it cannot therefore be defended
any further; the battle cannot be con-
tinued. In both cases the beaten armies
are very much like the broken strings of
an instrument which cannot do their work.

That geometrical as well as this geo-
graphical principle which had a ten-
dency to place an army in a state of
crystallising tension^which did not allow
of the available powers being made use
of up to the last man, have at least so far
lost their influence that they no longer
predominate. Armies are still led into
battle in a certain order, but that order
is no longer of decisive importance ; ob-
stacles of ground are also still turned to
account to strengthen a position, but
they are no longer the only support.

We attempted in the second chapter
of this book to take a general view of
the nature of the modem battle. Accord-
ing to our conception of it, the order of
battle is only a disposition of the forces
suitable to the convenient use of them,
and its course a mutual slow wearing
away of these forces upon one another,
to see which will have soonest exhausted
his adversary.

The resolution therefore to give up the
fight arises, in a general action more than
in any other combat, irom the relation
of the fresh reserves remaining available ;
for only these still retain all their moral
vigour, and the cinders of the battered,
knock ed-about battallions, already burnt
out in the destroying element, must not
be placed on a level with' them ; also
lost ground as we have elsewhere said, is a
standard of lost moral force ; it therefore
comes also into account, but more as a sign
of loss suffered than for the loss itself, and
the number of fresh reserves is always
the chief point to be looked at by both
commanders.

In general, an action inclines in one
direction from the very commencement,
but in a manner little observable. This
direction is also frequently given in a
very decided manner by the arrangements
which have been made previously, and
then it is a want of descemment in that
general who commences battle under
these unfavourable oircumstancoR without
being aware of them. Even wlien tliis

CHAP. IX.]

GENERAL ACTION.

143

does not occur it lies in the nature of
things that the course of a battle re-
sembles rather a slow disturbance of
equilibiium which oommences soon, but
as we have said almost imperceptibly at
first, and then with each moment of time
becomes stronger and more visible, than
an oscillating to and fro, as those who are
misled by mendacious descriptions usually
suppose.

But whether it happens that the balance •
is for a long time little disturbed, or that
even after it has been lost on one side it
rights itself again, and is then lost on the
other side, it is certain at all events that in
most instances the defeated general fore-
sees his fate long before he retreats, and
that cases in which some critical event acts
with unexpected force upon the course of
the whole have their existence mostly in
the colouring with which every one de-
picts his lost battle.

We can only here appeal to the de-
cision of unprejudiced men of experience,
who will, we are sure, assent to what we
have said, and answer for us to such of *
our readers as do not know war from
their own experience. To develop the
necessity of this course from the nature
of the thing would lead us too far into
the province of tactics, to which this
subject belongs ; we are here only con-
cerned with its results.

If we say that the defeated general
foresees the unfavourable result usually
some time before he makes up his mind
to give up the battle, we admit that there
are also instances to the contrary, because
otherwise we should maintain a propo-
sition contradictory in itself. If at the
moment of each decisive tendency of a
battle it should be considered as lost,
then also no further forces should be used
to give it a turn, and consequently this
decisive tendency could not precede the
retreat by any length of time. Certainly
there are instances of battles which after
having taken a decided turn to one side
have still ended in favour of the other ;

but they are rare, not usual; these ex-
ceptional cases, however, are reckoned
upon by every general against whom
fortune declares itself, and he must
reckon upon them as long as there re-
mains a possibility of a turn of fortune.
He hopes by stronger efforts, by raising
the remaining moral forces, by surpass-
ing himself, or also by some fortunate
chance that the next moment will bring a
change, and pursues this as far as his
courage and his judgment can agree. We
shall have something more to say on this
subject, but before that we must show
what are the signs of the scales turning.

The result of the whole combat consists
in the sum total of the results of all par-
tial combats ; but these results of separate
combats are settled by different things.

First by the pure moral power in the
mind of the leading officers. If a gene-
ral of division has seen his battalions
forced to succumb, it will have an influ-
ence on his demeanour and his reports,
and these again wiU have an influence on
the measures of the commander-in-chief;
therefore even those unsuccessful partial
combats which to all appearance are
retrieved, are not lost in their results, and
the impressions from them sum them-
selves up in the mind of the commander
without much trouble, and even against
his will.

Secondly, by the quicker melting away
of our troops, which in the slow little
timiultuary course of our battles can be
easily estimated.

Thirdly, by lost ground.

All these things serve for the eye of
the general as a compass to tell the course
of the battle in which he is embarked.
If whole batteries have been lost and
none of the enemy's taken ; if battalions
have been overthrown by the enemy's
cavalry, whilst those of the enemy every-
where present impenetrable masses ; if the
line of fire from his order of battle wavers
involuntarily from one point to another ;
if fruitless efforts have been made to gain

14i

ON WAR

[book nr.

certain points, and the assaulting bat-
talions each time been scattered by well-
directed volleys of grape and canister;
— if our artillery begins to reply feebly
to that of the enemy ; — ^if the battalions
under fir^ diminish unusually fast, be-
cause with the woimded crowds of un-
wounded men go to the rear; — if single
diyisions have been cut off and made pri-
soners through the disruption of the plan
of the battle ; — if the line of retreat begins
to be endangered : then by all these things
the commander may tell very well in
which direction he is going with his
battle. The longer this direction con-
tinues, the more decided it becomes, so
much the more difficult will be the turn-
ing, BO much the nearer the moment
when he must give up the battle. We
shall now make some observations on
this moment.

We have already said more than once
that the final decision is ruled mostly by
the relative number of the fresh re-
serves remaining at the last ; that com-
mander who sees his adversary is de-
cidedly superior to him in this respect
makes up his mind to retreat. It is just
the characteristic of modem battles that
all mischances and losses which take
place in the course of the same can be
retrieved by fresh forces, because the
arrangement of the modem order of
battle, and the way in which troops are
brought into action, allow of their use
almost generally, and in each position.
So long, therefore, as that commander
against whom the issue seems to declare
itself still retains a superiority in reserve
force, he will not give up the day. But
from the moment that his reserves begin
to become weaker than his enemy's, the
decision may be regarded as settled, and
what he now does depends partly on
special circumstances, partly on the de-
gree of courage and perseverance which
he personally possesses, and which may
degenerate into foolish obstinacy. How
a commander can attain to the power of

estimating correctly the still remaining
reserves on both sides is an affair of skil-
ful practical ability, which does not in
any way belong ta this place ; we keep
ourselves to the result as it forms itself
in his mind. But this conclusion is still
not the moment of decision properly, for
a motive which only rises gradually does
not answer to that, but is only a general
motive towards resolution, and the reso-
lution itself requires still some special
immediate causes. Of these there are
two chief ones which constantly recur,
that is, the danger of retreat, and the
arrival of night.

If the retreat with every new step
which the battle takes in its course be-
comes constantly in greater danger, and
if the reserves are so much diminished
that they are no longer adequate to get
breathing room, then there is nothing left
but to submit to fate, and by a well-con-
ducted retreat to save what, by a longer
delay ending in flight and disaster,
would bo lost.

But night as a rule puts an end to all
battles, because a night combat holds out
no hope of advantage, except under par-
ticular . circumstances ; and as night is
better suited for a retreat than the day,
so, therefore, the commander who must
look at the retreat as a thing inevitable,
or as most probable, will prefer to make
use of the night for his purpose.

That there are, besides the above two
usual and chief causes, yet many others
also, which are less or more individual and
not to be overlooked, is a matter of course;
for the more a battle tends towards a
complete upset of equilibrium the more
sensible is the influence of each partial
result in hastening the turn. Thus the
loss of a battery, a successful charge of a
couple of regiments of cavalry, may call
into life the resolution to retreat already
ripening.

As a conclusion to this subject, we
must dwell for a moment on the point at
which the courage of the commander en-

CHAP. X.]

GENERAL ACTION.

U6

gages in a sort of conflict with Ids
reason.

If, on the one hand, the overbearing
pride of a Tictorious conqueror, if the in-
flexible will of a naturally obstinate
spirit, if the strenuous resistance of noble
feelings will not yield the battle-field,
wbere they must leave their honour,
yet on the other hand, reason counsels
not to give up everything, not to risk the
last upon the game, but to retain as much
over as is necessary for an orderly re-
treat. However highly we must esteem
courage and firmness in war, and how

A *

ever little prospect there is of victory to
him who cannot resolvB to seek ifc by the
exertion of all his power, still there is a
point beyond which perse^rance. can
only be termed desperate folly, and there-
fore can meet with no approbation ffoni
any critic. In the most celebrated of all
battles, that of Belle-AUiance, Buona-
parte used his last reserve in an effort to
retrieve a battle which was past being
retrieved. He spent his last farthing,
and fled then as a beggar from the
battle-field and the empire.

CHAPTER X.

CONTINUATION.

EFFECTS OF VICTORY.

Just according to the point from which
our view is taken, we may feel as much as-
tonished at the extraordinary results of
some great battles as at the want of re-
sults in others. We shall dwell for a
moment on the nature of the effect of a
great victory.

Three things may easily be distin-
guished here : the effect upon the instru-
ment itself, that is, generals and their
armies ; the effect upon the states inte-
rested in the war; and the particular
result of these effects as manifested in
the subsequent course of the war.

If we only think of the trifling differ-
ence which there usually is between
victor and vanquished in killed, wounded,
prisoners, and artillery lost on the field
of battle itself, the consequences which
are developed out of this insignificant
point seem often quite incomprehensible,
and yet, usually, everjrthing only happens
quite naturally.

We have already said in the seventh

chapter that the magnitude of a victory
increases not merely in the same measure
as the vanquished forces increase in
number, but in a higher ratio. The moral
effects resulting from the issue of a great
battle are greater on the side of the con-
quered than on that of the conqueror :
they lead to greater losses in physical
force, which then in turn re-act on the
moral, and so they go on mutually sup-
poiiiing and intensifying each other. On
this moral effect we must therefore lay
special weight. It takes an opposite direc-
tion on the one side from that on the other;
as it undermines the energies of the con-
quered so it elevates the powers and energy
of the conqueror. But its chief effect is
upon the vanquished, because here it is
the direct cause of fresh losses, and be-
sides it is homogeneous in nature with
danger, with the fatigues, the hardships,
and generally with all those embarrassing
circumstances by which war is siirrounded,
therefore enters into league with them

U6

OX JFAjR,

[

BOOK IV,

and increases by their lielp, whilst with
the conqueror all these things are like
weights which give a higher swing to his
courage. It is therefore found, that the
yanquisked sinks much more below the
original line of equilibrium than the con-
queror raises himself above it ; on this
account, if we speak of the effects of vic-
tory we allude more particularly to those
which manifest themselves in the van-
quished army. If this effect is more
powerful in an important combat than
in a smaller one, so again it is much more
powerful in a great general action than
in a second-rate battle. The great battle
takes place for the sake of itself, for the
sake of the victory which it is to give,
and which is sought for in it with the
utmost effort. Here on this spot, in this
very hour, to conquer the enemy is the
purpose in which the plan of the war
with all its threads converges, in which
all distant hopes, all dim glimmerinj^js of
the future meet ; fate steps in before us to
give an answer to the bold question. — This
is the state of mental tension not only of
the commander but of his whole army
down to the lowest wagon-driver, no doubt
in decreasing strength but also in decreas-
ing importance.

According to the nature of the thing,
a great battle has never at any time been
an unprepared, unexpected, blind routine
service, but a grand act, which, partly of
itself and partly from the aim of the com-
mander, stands out from amongst the
mass of ordinary works, sufficiently to
raise the tension of all minds to a
higher degree. But the higher this ten-
sion with respect to the issue, the more
powerful must be the effect of that
issue.

Again, the moral effect of victory in
our battles is greater than it was in the
earlier ones of modem military h istory. If
the former are as we have depicted them,
a real struggle of forces to the utmost,
then the sum total of all these force, of
the physical as well as the moral, must

decide more than certain special disposi-
tions or mere chance.

A single fault committed may be re-
paired next time -^ from good fortune and
chance we can hope for more favour
another time ; but the sum total of moral
and physical powers cannot be so quickly
altered, and, therefore, what the award
of a victory has decided over it appears
of much greater importance for all
futurity. Very probably, of aU concerned
in battles, whether in or out of the army,
very few have given a thought to this
difference, but the course of the battle
itself impresses on the minds of all
present in it such a result, and the
relation of this course in public docu-
ments, however much it may be coloured
by twisting particular circumstances,
shows also, more or less, to the world
at large that the causes were more of a
general than of a particular nature.

lie who has not been present at the
loss of a great battle will have difficulty
in forming for himself a living or quite
true idea of it, and the abstract notions
of this or that small imtoward affair will
never come up to the perfect conception
of a lost battle. Let us stop a moment
at the picture.

The first thing which in an unsuccessful
battle overpowers the imagination — and
we may indeed say, also the under-
standing— is the diminution of the masses ;
then the loss of ground, which takes
place always, more or less, and, therefore,
on the side of the assailant also, if he ia
not fortunate ; then the rupture of the
original formation, the jumbling together
of divisions, the risks of retreat, which,
with few exceptions, may always be seen
sometimes in a less sometimes in a greater
degree ; next the retreat, the most part
of which commences at night, or, at least,
goes on throughout the night. On this
first march we must at once leave behind
a nximber of men completely worn out
and scattered about, often just the bravest,
who have been foremost in the fight^ who

CHAP. X.]

GENERAL ACTION.

147

held out the longest : the feeling of being
conquered, which only seized the superior
officers on the battle field, now spreads
through all ranks, even down to the
common soldiers, aggravated by the
horrible idea of being obliged to leave in
the enemy's hands so many brave com-
rades, who but amoment since were of such
value to us in the battle, and aggravated by
a rising distrust of the chief commander,
to whom, more or less, every subordinate
attributes as a fault the fruitless efforts
he has made ; and this feeling of being
conquered is no ideal picture over which
one might become master; it is an
evident truth that the enemy is superior
to us; a truth of which the causes might
have been so latent before that they were
not to be discovered, but which, in the
issue, comes out clear and palpable, or
which was also, perhaps, before suspected,
but which in the want of any certainty,
we had to opx)ose by the hope of chance,
reliance on good fortune, Providence or
bold attitude. Now, all this has proved
insufficient, and the earnest truth meets
U8 harsh and imperious.

All these feelings are widely different
from a panic, which in an army fortified
by military virtue never, and in any other
only exceptionally, follows the loss of a
baUle. They must arise even in the best
of armies, and although long habituation to
war and victory and great confidence in a
commander may modify them a little here
and there, they are never entirely wanting
in the first moment. Also, they are not
the pure consequences of lost trophies ;
these are usually lost at a later period,
and the loss of them does not become
generally known so quickly; they will
therefore not fail to appear even when
the scale turns in the slowest and most
gradual manner, and they constitute that
effect of a victory upon which we can
always count in every case.

We have already said that the number
of trophies intensifies this effect.

How much now an army in this con-

dition, looked at as an instrument, is
weakened! How can we eJfpect that
when weakened to such a degree that,
as we said before, it finds new enemies
in all the ordinary difficulties of mak-
ing war, it will be able to re-
cover by fresh efforts what has been
lost ! Before the battle there was a
real or assumed equilibrium between the
two sides ; this is lost, and, therefore,
some external assistance is requisite to
restore it ; every new effort without such
external support can only lead to fresh
losses.

Thus, therefore, the most moderate
victory of the chief army must tend to
cause a constant sinking of the scale,
until new external circumstances bring
about a change. If these are not near,
if the conqueror is an eager opponent,
who, thirsting for glory, pursues g^eat
aims, then a first-rate commander, and
in the army a true military spirit, hard-
ened by many campaigns, are required,
in order to stop the swollen stream of
prosperity from bursting completely
through, and to moderate its course by
small but reiterated acts of resistance,
until the force of victory has spent itself
at the goal of its career.

And now as to the effect of the victory,
out of the army, upon the nation and
government ! It is the sudden collapse
of hopes stretched to the utmost, the
downfall of all self-reliance. In place of
these extinct forces, fear, with its de-
structive properties of expansion, rushes
iiito the vacuum left, and completes the
prostration. It is a real shock upon the
nerves, which one of the two athletes re-
ceives by the electric spark of victory.
And that effect, however different in its
degrees here and there, is never com-
pletely wanting. Instead of every one
hastening with a spirit of determination
to aid in repairing the disaster, every
one fears that his efforts will only be in
vain, and stops, hesitating with himself,
when he should rush forward; or in

148

ON WAR.

[book rv,

despondency lie lets liis arm drop, leav-
ing everjtlung to fate.

The consequences which this effect
of victory brings forth in the coiirse of
the war itself depend in part on the cha*
racter and talent of the victorious gene-
ral, but more on the circumstances from
which the victory proceeds, and to which
it leads. Without boldness and an en-
terprising spirit on the part of the
• general, the most brilliant victory will
lead to no great success, and its force
exhausts itself all the sooner on circum-
stances, if these offer a strong and stub-
bom opposition to it. How very differently
from Daun, Frederick the Great would
have used the victory at Collin; and
what different consequences France, in
place of Prussia, might have given a
battle of Leuthen !

The conditions which allow us to
expect great results from a great victory
>we shall learn when we come to the sub-
jects with which they are connected;
then it will be possible to explain the
disproportion which appears at first sight
between the magnitude of a victory and
its results, and which is only too readily
attributed to a want of energy on the
part of the conqueror. Here, where we
have to do with the great battle in itself,
we shall merely say that the effects now
depicted never fafl. to attend a victory,
that they mount up with the intensive
strength of the victory — mount up more
the more the battle is a general action,
that is, the more the whole strength of
the army has been concentrated in it,
the more the whole military power of
the nation is cbntained in that army,
and the state in that militcuy power.

But then the question may be asked.
Can theory accept this effect of victory
as absolutely necessary? — must it not
rather endeavour to find out counter-
acting means capable of neutralising
these effects ? It seems quite natural to
answer this question in the affirmative ;
but heaven defend us from taking that
wrong course of most theories, out of

which is begotten a mutually devouring
Pro et Contra.

Certainly that effect is perfectly neces-
sary, for it has its foundation in the
nature of things, and it exists, even if
we find means to struggle against it ; just
as the motion of a cannon ball is always
in the direction of the terrestrial, although
when fired from east to west part of
the general velocity is destroyed by this
opx)osite moti.on.

All war supposes human weakness,
and against that it is directed.

Therefore, if hereafter in another place
we examine what is to be done after the
loss of a great battle, if we bring under
review the resources which still remain,
even in the most desperate cases, if we
should express a belief in the possibility
of retrieving all, even in such a case ; it
must not be supposed we mean thereby
that the effects of such a defeat can by
degrees be completely wiped out, for the
forces and means used to repair the dis-
aster might have been applied to the reali-
sation of some positive object; and this
applies both to the moral and physical
forces.

Another question is, whether, through
the loss of a great battle, forces are not
perhaps roused into existence, which
otherwise would never have come to life.
This case is certainly conceivable, and
it is what has actually occurred with
many nations. But to produce this in-
tensified reaction is beyond the province
of nulitary art, which can only take
account of it where it might be assumed
as a possibility.

If there are cases in which the fruits
of a victory appear rather of a destructive
nature in consequence of the reaction of
the forces which it had the effect of rous-
ing into activity — cases which certainly
are very exceptional — then it must the
more surely be granted, that there is a
difference in the effects which one and the
same victoiy may produce according to the
character of the people or state, which has
been conquered.

CHAP. XI.]

GENERAL ACTION,

149

CHAPTER XI.

CONTINUATION.

TBS USE OF THE BATTLE.

Whateter shape the conduct of war
may take in particular cases, and what-
ever we may also have to admit in the
sequel as necessary respecting it: we
have only to refer to the conception of
war to be convinced of what follows :

1. The destruction of the enemy's
military force, is the leading principle of
war, and for the whole chapter of
positive action thejdirect way to the aim.

2. This destruction of the enemy's
force, must be principally effected by
means of battle.

3. Only great and general actions can
produce great results.

4. The results will be greatest when
combats unite themselves in one great
battle.

5. It is only in a great general action
that the general-in-chief commands in
person, and it is in the nature of things,
that he should place most confidence in
himself.

From these truths a double law follows,
the parts of which mutually support each
other; namely, that the destruction of
the enemy's military force is to be sought
for principally by great battles, and their
results ; and that the chief object of great
battles must be the destruction of the
enemy's military force.

No doubt the annihilation-principle is
to be found more or less in other means —
granted there are instances in which
through iavourable circumstances in a
minor combat, the destruction of the
enemy's forces has been dispropor-
tionately great (Maxen), and on the
other hand in a general action, the taking
or holding a single post may be pre-

dominant in importance as an object —
but as a general rule it remains a para-
mount truth, that general actions are only
fought with a view to the destruction of
the enemy's army, and that this destruc-
tion can only be effected by a great
battle.

The general action may therefore be
regarded as war concentrated, as the
centre of gravity of the whole war or
campaign. As the sun's rays unite in
the focus of the concave mirror in a
perfect image, and in the fulness of
their heat ; so the forces and circum-
stances of war, unite in a focus in the
great battle for one concentrated utmost
effort.

The very assemblage of forces in one
great whole, which takes place more or
less in all wars, indicates an intention to
strike a decisive blow with this whole,
either voluntarily as assailant, or con-
strained by the opposite party as de-
fender. When this great blow does
not follow, then some modifying, and
retarding motives have attached them-
selves to the original motive of hostility,
and have weakened, altered or completely
checked the movement. But also, even
in this condition of mutual inaction which
has been the key-note ^n so many wars,
the idea of a possible general action
serves always for both parties as a point
of direction, a distant focus in the con-
struction of their plans. The more war
is war in earnest, the more it is a
venting of animosity and hostility, a
mutual struggle to overpower, so much
the more will all activities join in
deadly contest, and also the more pro-

150

ON WAR.

[booe ly.

minent in importance becomes a general
action.

In general, when the object aimed at is
of a great and positive nature, one there-
fore in which the interests of the enemy
are deeply concerned, the general action
offers itself as the most natural means ; it
is, therefore, also the best, as we shall
show more plainly hereafter : and, as a
rule, when it is evaded from aversion to
the great decision, punishment follows.
* T|ie positive object belongs to the of-
fensive, and therefore the general action
is altfo more particularly his means. But
without e^^amining the conception of of-
fensive and defensive more minutely
here, we must still observe that, even for
ft the defender in most cases, there is no
other effectual means with which to meet
the exigencies of his situation, to solve
. the problem presented to him.

The general action is the bloodiest
way of solution. True, it is not merely
reciprocal slaughter, and its effect is more
a killing of the enemy's courage than of
the enemy's soldiers, as we shall see
more plainly in the next chapter, — but
still blood is always its price, and slaugh-
ter its character as well as name ; from
this the man in the general recoils with
horror.

But the soul of the man trembles
still more at the thought of the deci-
sion to be given with one single blow.
In one point of space and time all action
is here pressed together, and at such a
moment there is stirred up within us a
dim feeling as if in this narrow space all
our forces could not develop themselves
and come into activity, as if we had al-
ready gained much by mere time, although
this time owes us nothing at all. This
is all mere illusion, but even as illusion
it is something, and the same weakness
which seizes upon the man in every other
momentous decision may well be felt
more powerfully by the general, when he
must stake interests of such enormous
weight upon one venture.

Thus, then, statesmen and generals
have at all times endeavoured to avoid
the decisive battle, seeking either to at-
tain their aim without it, or dropping
that aim imperceived. Writers on his-
tory and theory have then busied them-
selves to discover in some other feature
in these campaigns and wars not only an
equivalent lor the decision by battle
which has-been avoided, but even a higher
art. In this way, in the present age, it
came very near to this, that a general
action in the economy of war was looked
upon as an evil, rendered necessaiy
through some error committed, as a
morbid paroxysm to which a regular
prudent system of war would never lead:
only those generals were to deserve lau-
rels who knew how to carry on war with-
out spilling blood, and the theory of war
— a real business for Brahmins — was to
be specially directed to teaching this.

Contemporary history has destroyed
this illusion, but no one can guarantee
that it will not sooner or later reproduce
itself, and lead those at the head of affairs
to perversities which please man's weak-
ness, and therefore have the greater af-
finity for his nature. Perhaps, by-and-
bye, Buonaparte's campaigns and battles
will be looked upon as mere acts of bar-
barism and stupidity, and we shall once
more turn with satisfaction and confidence
to the dress-sword of obsolete and musty
institutions and forms. If theoiy gives
a caution against this, then it renders a
real service to those who listen to its
warning voice. May we succeed in lend-
ing a hand to those who in our dear
native land are called upon to speak with
authority on these matters, that we may
be their guide into this field of inquiry,
and excite them to make a candid exami-
nation of the subject.

Not only the conception of war but
experience also leads us to look for a
great decision only in a great battle.
From time immemorial, only great vic-
tories have led to great successes on the

CHAP. XI.]

GENERAL ACTION,

151

offensive side in the absolute form, on thd
defensive side in a manner more or less
BO. Even Buonaparte would not have
seen the day of Ulm, unique in its kind,
if he had shrunk from shedding blood ;
it is rather to be regarded as only a
second crop from the victorious events in
his preceding campaigns. It is not only
bold, rash, and presumptuous generals
-who have sought to complete their work
by the great venture of a decisive battle,
but also fortunate ones as well ; and we
may rest satisfied with the answer which
they have thus given to this vast question.

Let us not hear of generals who con-
quer without bloodshed. If a bloody
slaughter is a horrible sight, then that is
a ground for paying more respect to war,
but not for making the sword we wear
blunter and blunter by degrees from feel-
ings of humanity, until some one steps in
with one that is sharp and lops o& the
arm from, our body.

We look upon a g^eat battle as a
principal decision, but certainly not as
the only one necessary for a war or a
campaign. Instances of a great battle
deciding a whole campaign, have only
been frequent in modem times, those
which have decided a whole war, belong
to the class of rare exceptions.

A decision which is brought about by
a great battle depends naturally not on
the battle itself, that is on the mass of
combatants engaged in it, and on the
intensity of the victory, but also on a
number of other relations between the
military forces opposed to each other,
and between the states to which these
forces belong. But at the same time
that the principal mass of the force
available is brought to the g^eat duel,
a great decision is also brought on, the
extent of which may perhaps be foreseen
in many respects, though not in all, and
which although not the only one, still is
the firii decision, and as such, has an
influence on those which succeed. There-
fore a deliberately planned great battle.

according to its relations, is more or
less, but always in some degree, to be re-
garded as the leading means and central
point of the whole system. The more a
general takes the field in the true spirit
of war as well as of every contest, with
the feeling and the idea that is the con-
viction that he must and will conquer,
the more he will strive to throw every
weight into the scale in the first battle,
hope and strive to win eveiything by it.
Buonaparte hardly ever ei^ered upon a ^
war without thinking of conquering his
enemy at once in the first battle ; and
Frederick the Great, although in a more
limited sphere, and with interests of less
magnitude at stake, thought the same •*
when, at the head of a small army, he
sought to disengage his rear from the
Kussians or the Federal Imperial Army.

The decision which is given by the ^
great battle, depends, we have said, partly
on the battle itself, that is on the number
of troops engaged, and partly Oti the
magnitude of the success.

How the general may increase its im-
portance in respect to the first point is
evident in itself, and we shall merely
observe that according to the importance
of the great battle, the nimiber of cases
which are decided along with it inci'eases,
and that therefore generals who, confident
in themselves have been lovers of great
decisions, have always managed to make
use of the greater part of their troops
in it without neglecting on that account
essential points elsewhere.

As regards the consequences, or speak-
ing more correctly, the effectiveness of a
victory, that depends chiefly on four points:

1 . — On the tactical form adopted as the
order of battle.

2. — On the nature of the country.

3. — On the relative proportions of the
three arms.

4.— On the relative strength of the
two armies.

A battle with parallel fronts and with-
out any action against a flank will seldom

■ .

152

ON WAR.

[bopk nr.

««

yield as ^eat success as one in wliich
the defeated army has been turned^ or
•ompelled to Aange ^nt more or less.
In a broken or hilly country the successes
QX^ likewise smaller, because the power of
the blow is' everywhere less.

If the cavalry of the vanquished is equal
cft superior to that of the victor, then
the effects ot Hie pursuit are diuiinished,
and by that giieat part of the results of
victory ore bst.

iFinally it is eai^y to understand that
if superior numbers are on the side of the
con<|ueror, and he uses his advantage
in that respect to turn the flank of his
advei«ary, or compel him to change front,
greater results will follow than if the
conqueror had been weaker in numbers
Hhan the vanquished. The battle of
Leuthen may certainly be quoted as a
practical refutation of this principle, but
we beg permission for once to say what
we otherwise do not like, no rule mthout
an exeeptum*

In all these ways, therefore, the com*
mander has the means of giving his
battle a decisive character ; certainly he
thus exposes himself to an increased
amount of danger, but his whole line of
action is subject to that dynamic law of
the moral world.

There is then nothing in war wliich
can be put in comparison with the great
battle in point of importance, and the
acme of strategic ability is displayed in
the provision of means for this great

event in the skilful determination of
place and time, and direction of troops,
and in the good use of success.

But it does not follow from the im-
portance of these things that they must
be of a very complicated and recondite
nature ; all is here rather simple, the
art of combination by no means great ;
but there is great need of quickness in
judging of circumstances, need of energy,
steady resolution, a youthful spirit of
enterprise — heroic qualities, to which we
shall yet have often to refer. There is,
therefore, but little wanted here of that
which can be taught by books, and there
is much that, if it can be taught at all,
must come to the general through some
other medium than printer's type.

The impulse towards a g^eat battle,
the voluntary, sure progress to it, must
proceed from a feeling of innate power
and a clear sense of the necessity; in
other words, it must proceed from inborn
courage and from perceptions sharpened
by contact with the higher interests of
life.

Great examples are the best teachers,
but it is certainly a misfortune if a cloud
of theoretical prejudices comes between,
for even the sunbeam is refracted and
tinted by the clouds. To destroy such
prejudices, which many a time rise and
spread themselves like a miasma, is an
imperative duty of theory, for the misbe-
gotten offspring of human reason can
also be in turn destroyed by pure reason.

CHAPTER XII.

STRATEGIC MEANS OF UTILISmG VICTORY.

Ths more difficult part, that of perfectly
preparing the victory, is a silent service
of which the merit belongs to strategy,
and yet for which it is hardly com-

mended. Brilliant and f^ of renown it
appears by turning to good account a
victory gained.
What may be the special object of a

CHAP^xii.] STRATEGIC MEANS OF UTILISING VICTORY.

153

battle, how it is connected with the whole
system of a war, whither the career of
victory may lead according to the nature
of circumstances, where its culminating
point lies — all these are things which
we shall not enter upon until hereafter.
But under any conceivable circumstances
the fact holds good, that without a pur-
suit no victory can have a great effect,
and that, however short the career of
victory may be, it must always lead
beyond the first steps in pursuit ; and in
order to avoid the frequent repetition of
this, we shall now dwell for a moment
on this necessary supplement of victory
in general.

The pursuit of a beaten army com-
mences at the moment that army, giving
up the combat, leaves its position ; all
previous movements in one direction
and another belong not to that but to
the progress of the battle itself. Usually
victory at the moment here described,
even ^ it is certain, is still as yet small
and weak in its proportions, and would
not rank as an event of any great posi-
tive advantage if not completed by a
pursuit on the first day. Then it is
mostly, as we have before said, that the
trophies which give substance to the
victory begin to be gathered up. Of
this pursuit we shall speak in the next
place.

Usually both sides come into action
with their physical powers considerably
deteriorated, for the movements imme-
diately preceding have generally the
eharacter of very urgent circumstances.
The efforts which the wringing out a
great combat costs, complete the exhaus-
tion; from this it comes that the vic-
torious party is very little less disorgan-
ised and out of his original formation
than the vanquished, and therefore re-
quires to re-form, to collect stragglers,
and issue fresh ammunition to those who
are without. All these things place the
conqueror himself in the state of crisis
of which we have already spoken. If now

the defeated force is only a' detached
portion of the enemy's army, or if it has
otherwise to expect a ccMUsicttrable rein-
forcement, then the conqueror may easily
run into the obvious tlanger of hayio^
to pay dear for his victory, ibu^ this con-
sideration, in such a case, very soon puts
an end to pursuit, or at least restricts' it
very much. But even when a strong
accession of force by the etiem/ is not to
be feared, the conqueror finds in the
above circumstances % powerful check to
the vivacity of his pursuit. There is no
reason to fear that the victory wili be
snatched away, but adverse combats ar» ^
still possible, and may diminish the <
advantages which up to the present *'
have been gained. Moreover, at this
moment the whole weight of all that is
sensuous in an army,* its wants and
weaknesses, are dependent on the will **
of the commander. All the thousands
under his command require rest an4 ^
refreshment, and long to see* stop put to
toil and danger for the present ; only a
few, forming an exception, can see and
feel beyond the present moment; it is
only amongst this little number that
there is sufficient mental vigour to think,
after what is absolutely necessary at the
moment has been done, upon those re-
sults which at such a moment only
appear to the rest as mere embellish-
ments of victory — as a luxury of triumph.
But all these thousands have a voice in
the council of the general, for through
the various steps of the military hier-
archy these interests of the sensuous
creature have their sure conductor into
the heart of the commander. He him-
self, through mental and bodily fatigue,
is more or less weakened in his natural
activity, and thus it happens then that,
mostly from these causes, purely inci-
dental to human nature, less is done
than might have been done, and that
generally what is done is to be ascribed
entirely to the thirst for ghry, the energy^
indeed also the hardheiirtednest of tho

154

ON WAR.

[book nr.

general-in- chief. It is only thus we can
explain the hesitating manner in which
many generals follow up a victory which
superior numbers have given them. The
first pursuit of the enemy we limit in gene-
ral to the extent of the first day, including
the night following the victory. At the
end of that period the necessity of rest our-
0elres prescribes a halt in any case.

This first pursuit has different natural
degrees.

The first is, if cavalry alone are
employed; in that case it amounts
usually more to alarming and watching
than to pressing the enemy in reality,
because the smidlest obstacle of ground
is generally sufiicient to check the pursuit.
Useful as cavalry may be against single
f>odies of broken demoralised troops, stiU
opposed to the whole it becomes again
only the auxiliary arm, because the
troops in retreat can employ fresh
reserves to cover the movement, and,
therefore, at the next trifling obstacle of
ground, by combining all arms they
can make a stand with success. The
only exception to this is in the case of an
army in actual flight in a complete state
of dissolution.

The second degree is, if the pursuit is
made by a strong advanced guard com-
posed of aU arms, the greater part
consisting naturally of cavalry. Such a
pursuit generally drives the enemy as far
as the nearest strong position for his rear-
guard, or the next position affording
space for his army. For either an oppor-
tunity is not usually found at once, and,
therefore, the pursuit can be carried
further ; generally, however, it does not
extend beyond the distance of one or at
most a couple of leagues, because other-
wise the advanced guard would not feel
itself sufficiently supported.

The third and most vigorous degree is
when the victorious army itsoK continues
its advance as far as the physical powers
can endure. In this case the beaten
army will generally quit such ordinary

positions as a country usually offers on
the mere show of an attack, or of an
intention to turn his flank ; and the rear-
guard will be still less likely to engage
in an obstinate resistance.

In all three cases the night, if it sets in
before the conclusion of the whole act,
usually puts an end to it, and the few
instances in which this does not take
place, and the pursuit is continued
throughout the mght, must be regarded
as pursuits in an exceptionally vigorous
form.

If we reflect that in fighting by night
everything must be, more or less, aban-
doned to chance, and that at the conclu-
sion of a battle the regular cohesion
and order of things in an army must
inevitably be disturbed, we may easily
conceive the reluctance of both generals
to carrying on their business in the
obscurity of night. If a complete dis-
solution of the vanquished army, or a
rare superiority of the victorious army in
military virtue does not ensure success,
everything would in a manner be given
up to fate, which can never be for the
interest of any one, even of the most fool-
hardy general. As a rule, therefore,
night puts an end to pursuit, even also
when the battle has only been decided
shortly before its commencement. This
allows the conquered either time for rest
and to rally immediately, or, if he retreats
during the night it gives him a march in
advance. After this break the conquered
is decidedly in a better condition; much
of that which had been thrown into
confusion has been brought again into
order, ammunition has been renewed,
the whole has been put into a fresh
formation. Whatever further encounter
now takes place with the enemy is a new
battle, not a continuation of the old, and
although it may be far from promising
absolute success, still it is a fresh combat,
and not merely a gathering up of the
debris by the victor.

When, therefore, the conqueror can

CHAP, ra.] STRATEGIC MEANS OF UTILISING VICTORY.

155

continue the pursuit itself throughout
the night, if only with a strong advanced
guard composed of aU arms of the
service, the effect of the victory is im-
mensely increased, of which the battles of
Leu then and Belle Alliance* are examples.
The whole action of this pursuit is
mainly tactical, and we only dwell upon
it here in order to make plain the
difference which through it may be
produced in the effect of a victory.

This first pursuit, as far as the nearest
stopping-point, belongs as a right to every
conqueror, and is hardly in any way
connected with his further plans and
combinations. These may considerably
diminish the positive results of a victory
gained with the main body of the army,
but they cannot mate this first use of it
impossible; at least cases of that kind, if
conceivable at all, must be so uncommon
that they should have no appreciable
influence on theory. And here certainly
we must say that the example afforded
by modem wars opens up quite a new
field for energy. In preceding wars,
resting on a narrower basis, and altoge-
ther more circumscribed in their scope,
there were many unnecessary conventional
restrictionB in various ways, but particu-
larly in this point. The conception, Honour
of Victory seemed to generals so much by
far the chief thing, that they thought
the less of the complete destruction of
the enemy's military force, as in point of
fact that destruction of force appeared to
them only as one of the many means in
war, not by any means as the principal,
much less as the only means; so that
they the more readily put the sword in
its sheath the moment the enemy had
lowered his. Nothing seemed more na-
tural to them than to stop the combat as
soon as the decision was obtained, and
to regard all further carnage as unneces-
sary cruelty. Even if this false philo-
sophy did not determine their resolutions
entirely, still it was a point of view by

• Waterloo.

which representations of the exhaustion
of all powers, and physical impossibility
of continuing the struggle, obtained
readier entrance and greater weight.
Certainly the sparing one's own instru*
ment of victory is a vital question if wo
only possess this one, and foresee that
soon the time may arrive when it will
not be sufficient for all that remains to
be done, for every continuation of the
offensive as a rule leads ultimately to
that. But this calculation was still so
far false, as the further loss of forces by
a continuance of the pursuit could bear
no proportion to that which the enemy
must suffer. That view, therefore, again
could only exist because the military
forces were not considered the main
thing. And so we find that in former
wars real heroes only — such as Charlea
XII., Marlborough, Eugene, Frederick
the Great — added a vigorous pursuit to
their victories when they were di%ci0ive
enough, and that other generals usually
contented themselves with the possession
of the field of battle. In modem times
the greater energy infused into the con-
duct of wars through the greater import-
ance of the circumstances from which
they have proceeded has thrown down
these conventional barriers ; the pursuit
has become an all-important business for
the conqueror; trophies have on that
account multiplied in extent, and if there
are cases also in modem warfare in which
this has not been so, still they belong to
the list of exceptions, and are to be ac-
counted for by peculiar circumstances.

At Gdrschen and Bautzen nothing but
the superiority of the allied cavalry pre-
vented a complete rout, at Gross Beeren
and Dennewitz the ill-wiU of the Crown
Prince of Sweden, at Laon the enfeebled
personal condition of old Bliicher.

But Borodino is also an illustration to
the point here, and we cannot resist say-
ing a few more words about it, partly
because we do not consider the circum-
stances are explained simply by attach-

•• ^

156

ON WAR.

[book IV.

ing blame to Buonaparte, partly because
it might appear as if this, and with it a
great number of similar cases, belonged
to that class which we have designated
as so extremely rare, cases in which the
general relations seize and fetter the gene-
ral at the very beginning of the battle.
French authors in particular, and great
admirers of Buonaparte (Vaudaacourt,
Ghambray, Sdgur), have blamed him
decidedly because he did not drive the
Bussian army completely off the field,
and use his last reserves to scatter it,
because then what was only a lost battle
would have been a complete rout. We
should be obliged to diverge too far to
describe circumstantially the mutual situ-
ation of the two armies ; but this much is
evident, that when Buonaparte passed the
Niemen with his army the same corps which
afterwards fought at Borodino numbered
300,000 men, of whom now only 120,000
remained, he might therefore well be ap-

{irehensive that he would not have enough
eft to march upon Moscow, the point on
which everything seemed to depend. The
victory which he had just gained gave
him nearly a certainty of taking that
capital, for that the Bussians would be
in a condition to fight a second battle
within eight days seemed in the highest
degree improbable ; and in Moscow he
hoped to fiiid peace. No doubt the com-
plete dispersion of the Bussian army
would have made this peace much more
certain ; but still the first consideration
was to get to Moscow, that is, to get there
with«a force with which he should appear
dictator over the capital, and through
that over the empire and the government.
The force which he brought with him to
Moscow was no longer sufficient for that,
as shown in the sequel, but it would have
been still less so if, in scattering the
Bussian army, he had scattered his own
at the same time. Buonaparte was tho-
roughly alive to all this, and in our eyes
he stands completely justified. But on
that account this case is still not to be

reckoned amongst those in which, through
the general relations, the general is in-
terdicted the first following up of his
victory, for there never was in his case
any question of mere pursuit. The vic«
tory was decided at iour o'clock in the
afternoon, but the Bussians still occupied
the greater part of the field of battle ;
they were not yet disposed to give up the
ground, and if the attack had been re-
newed, they would still have offered a
most determined resistance, which would
have undoubtedly ended in their complete
defeat, but would have cost the conqueror
much further bloodshed. We must there-
fore reckon the Battle of Borodino as
amongst battles, like Bautzen, left un-
finished. At Bautzen the vanquished
preferred to quit the field sooner; at
Borodino the conqueror preferred to con-
tent himself with a half victory, not be-
cause the decision appeared doubtful, but
because he was not rich enough to pay
for the whole.

Betuming now to our subject, the
deduction from our reflections in
relation to the first stage of pursuit is,
that the energy thrown into it chiefly
determines the value of the victory ; that
this pursuit is a second act of the victory,
in many cases more important also than
the first, and that strategy, whilst here
approaching tactics to receive from it
the completed work, exercises the first
act of her authority by demanding this
completion of the victory.

But further, the effects of victory
are very seldom found to stop with this
first pursuit ; now first begins the real
career to which victory lent velocity.
This course is conditioned as we have
already said, by other relations of which
it is not yet time to speak. But we must
here mention, what there is of a general
character in the pursuit, in order to
avoid repetition when the subject occurs
again.

In the further stages of pursuit, again,
we can distinguish three degrees : the

CHAP. XII.] STRATEGIC MEANS OF UTILISING VICTORY.

157

simple pursuit, a hard pursuit, and a
parallel march to intercept.

The simple following or purnting
causes the enemy to continue his retreat,
until he thinks he can risk another
battle. It will therefore in its effect
suffice to exhaust the advantages gained,
and besides that, all that the enemj can-
not carry with him, sick, wounded, and
disabled from fatigue, quantities of
baggage, and carriages of all kinds, will
fall into our hands, but this mere fol-
lowing does not tend to heighten the
disorder in the enemy's army, an effect
which is produced by the two following
degrees.

If for instance, instead of contenting
ourselves with taking up every day the
camp the enemy has just, vacated, oc-
cupying just as much of the country as
he chooses to abandon, we make our
arrangements so as every day to encroach
fiicther, and accordingly with our advanced
guard organised for the purpose, attack
his rearguard every time it attempts to
halt, then such a course will hasten his
retreat, and consequently tend to in-
crease his disorganisation.— This it will
principally effect by the character of
continuous flight, which his retreat will
thus assume. Nothing has such a
depressing influence on the soldier, as
the sound of the enemy's cannon afiresh
at the moment when, after a forced
march he seeks some rest ; if this ex-
citement is continued from day to day
for some time, it may lead to a complete
panic. There lies in it a constant admis-
sion of being obliged to obey the law of
the enemy, and of being unflt for any
resistance, and the consciousness of this
cannot do otherwise than weaken the
morale of an army in a high degree. The
effect of pressing the enemy in this way
attains a maximum when it drives the
enemy to make night marches. If the
conqueror scares away the discomfited
opponent at sunset from a camp which
has just been taken up either for the

main body of the army, or for the rear-
guard, the conquered must either make
a night march, or alter his position in
the night, retiring further away, which is
much the same thing ; the victorious
party can on the other hand pass the
night in quiet.

The arrangement of marches, and the
choice of positions depend in this case
also upon so many other things especially
on the supplying of the army, on strong
natural obstacles in the country, on large
towns, etc., etc., that it would be ridiculous
pedantry to attempt to show by a geo-
metrical analysis how the pursuer, being
able to impose his laws on the retreating
enemy, can compel him to march at night
while he takes his rest. But nevertheless
it is true and practicable that marches
in pursuit may be so planned as to have
this tendency, and that the efficacy of
the pursuit is very much enhanced there-
by. If this is seldom attended to in the
execution, it is because such a procedure
is more difficult for the pursufng army,
than a regiQar adherence to ordinary
marches in the day time. To start in
good time in the morning, to encamp at
midday, to occupy the rest of the day
in providing for the ordinary wants of
the army, and to use the night for repose,
is a much more convenient method than
to regulate one's movements exactly ac-
cording to those of the enemy, therefore
to determine nothing till the last moment,
to start on the march, sometimes in the
morning, sometimes in the evening, to
be always for several hours in the pre-
sence of the enemy, and exchanging
cannon shots with him, and^ keeping up
skirmishing fire, to plan manceuvres to
turn him, in short, to make the whole
outlay of tactical means which such a
course renders necessary. All that
naturally bears with a heavy weight
on the pursuing army, and in war,
where there are so many burdens to be
borne, men are always inclined to strip
off those which do not seem absolutely

1.58

ON WAR.

[book IV.

necessary. These observations are true,
whether applied to a whole army or as in
the more usual case, to a strong advanced-
guard. Por the reasons just mentioned,
this second method of pursuit, this con-
tinued pressing of the enemy pursued is
rather a rare occurrence; even Buonaparte
in his Bussian campaign, 1812, practised
it but little, for the reasons here apparent,
that the difficulties and hardships of this
campaign, without that, threatened his
army with destruction before it could
reach its object ; on the other hand the
French in their other campaigns have
distinguished themselves by their energy
in this point also.

Lastly, the third and most effectual
form of pursuit is, the parallel march to
the immediate aim of the retreat.

Every defeated army will naturally
have behind it, at a greater or less distance,
some point, the attainment of which is
thfr first object in view, whether it be
that failing in this its further retreat might
be compromised, as in the case of a defile,
or that it is important for the point itself
to reach it before the enemy, as in the case
of a great city, magazines, etc., or, lastly,
that the army at this point will gain new
powers of defence, such as a strong
position, or junction with other corps.

Now if the conqueror directs his march
on this point by a lateral road, it is
evident how that may quicken the retreat
of the beaten army in a destructive
manner, convert it into hurry, perhaps
into a flight. The conquered has only
three ways to counteract this : the first is
to throw himself in front of the enemy,
in order by an unexpected attack to gain
that probability of success which is lost
to him in general from his position; this
plainly supposes an enterprising bold
general, and an excellent army, beaten
but not utterly defeated; therefore, it
can only be employed by a beaten army
in very few cases.

The second way is hastening the re-
treat ; but this is just what the conqueror

wants, and it easily leads to immoderate
efforts on the part of the troops, by which
enormous losses are sustained, in strag-
glers, broken guns, and carriages of all
kinds.

The third way is to make a detour,
and get round the nearest point of inter-
ception, to march with more ease at a
greater distance from the enemy, and
thus to render the haste required less
damaging. This last way is the worst of
aU, it generally turns out like a new debt
contracted by an insolvent debtor, and
leads to greater embarrassment. There
are cases in which this course is advisable ;
others where there is nothing else left;
also instances in which it has been suc-
cessful ; but upon the whole it is certainly
true that its adoption is usually influenced
less by a clear persuasion of its being
the surest way of attaining the aim than
by another inadmissible motive — this
motive is the dread of encountering the
enemy. Woe to the commander who gives
in to this! However much the morale
of his army may have deteriorated, and
however well founded may be his appre-
hensions of being at a disadvantage in
any conflict with the enemy, the evil will
only be made worse by too anxiously
avoiding every possible risk of collision.
Buonaparte in 1813 would never have
brought over the Ehine with him the
30,000 or 40,000 men who remained
after the battle of Hanau, if he had
avoided that battle and tried to pass the
Bhine at Mannheim or Coblenz. It is
just by means of small combats carefully
prepared and executed, and in which the
defeated army being on the defensive,
has always the assistance of the ground —
it is just by these that the moral strength
of the army can first be resuscitated.

The beneficial effect of the smaUest
successes is incredible ; but with most
generals the adoption of this plan implies
great self-command. The other way, that
of evading all encounter, appears at first
so much easier, that there is a natural

CHAP. XIII.]

RETREAT AFTER A LOST BATTLE.

159

preference for its adoption. It is therefore
usually just this system of evasion which
best promotes the view of the pursuevi
and often ends with the complete down-
fall of the pursued ; we must, however,
recollect here that we are speaking of
a whole army, not of a single division,
which, having been cut off, is seeking to
join the main army by making a detour ;
in such a case circumstances are different,
and success is not uncommon. But there
is one condition requisite to the success
of this race of two corps for an object,
which is that a division of the pursuing
army should follow by the same road
which the pursued has taken, in order to
pick up stragglers, and keep up the
impression which the presence of the
enemy never fails to make. Bliicher
neglected this in his, in other respects un*
exceptionable, pursuit after Belle Alliance.
Such marches tell upon the pursuer as
well as the pursued, and they are not
advisable if the enemy's army rallies
itself upon another considerable one;
if it has a distinguished general at its
head, and if its destruction is not already
well prepared. But when this means

can be adopted, it acts also like a great
mechanical power. The losses of the
beaten army from sickness and fatigue
are on such a disproportionate scale,
the spirit of the army is so weakened
and lowered by the constant solicitude
about impending ruin, that at last any
thin^ like a well-organized stand is
out of the question ; every day thou-
sands of prisoners fall into the enemy's
hands without striking a blow. In
such a season of complete good for-
tune, the conqueror need not hesitato
about dividing his forces in order to draw
into the vortex of destruction everything
within reach of his arm^, to cut off
detachments, to take fortresses unprepared
for defence, to occupy large towns, etc.,
etc. He may do anything until a new
state of things arises, and the more he
ventures in this way the longer will it be
before that change will take place.

There is no want of examples of
brilliant fesults from grand decisive vic-
tories, and of great and vigorous pursuits
in the wars of Buonaparte. We need only
quote Jena, Batisbonne, Leipsic, and
Belle-Alliance.

CHAPTER XIII.

RETREAT AFTER A LOST BATTLE.

In a lost battle the power of an army is
broken, the moral to a greater degree
than the physical. A second battle, un-
less fresh favourable circumstances come
into play, would lead to a complete defeat,
perhaps, to destruction. This is a
military axiom. According to the usual
course the retreat is continued up to
that point where the equilibrium of forces
is restored, either by reinforcements, or

by the protection of strong fortresses, or
by great divisions of the country, or by
a separation of the enemy's force. The
magnitude of the losses sustained, the
extent of the defeat, but still more
the character of the enemy, will bring
nearer or put off the instant of this
equilibrium. How many instances may
be found of a beaten army rallied again
at a short distance, without its oiroum-

160

ON WAR..

[book nr.

stances hamng altered In any way
since the battle. The c^se of this
may be traced to the moral deficiency
of the adversary, or to the prepon-
derance gained in the battle not hav-
ing been sufficient to make a lasting
impression.

. To profit by this weakness or mistake
of the enemy, iu)t to yield one inch
breadth more than tke pressure of
circumstances demands, but above all
tilings, in order to keep tip the moral
S)rces to as/idvantageous a point as pos-
sible; a slow retreat, ofiPering incessant
resistance, ttnd bold courageous counter-
strokes, whenever the enemy seeks to
gain any excessive advantages, are abso-
lutely necessary. Eetreats of great
generals and of armies inured to war
have always resembled the retreat of a
wounded lion, and such if, imdoubtedly,
also the best theory.

It is true that at the moment of quitting
a dangerous position we have often seen
trifling formalities obsorvad which caused
a waste of time, and were, therefore,
attended with danger, whilst in such
cases everything depends on getting out
of the place speedily. Practised generals
reckon this maxim a very important
one. But such cases must not be con-
founded with a general retreat after a
lost battle. Whoever then thinks by a
few rapid marches to gain a staj*t, and
more easily to recover a firm standing,
commits a great error. The first move-
ments should be as small as possible,
and it is a maxim in general not to suffer
ourselves to be dictated to by the enemy.
This maxim cannot be followed without
bloody combats with the enemy at our
heels, but the maxim is worth the
sacrifice ; without it we get into an
accelerated pace which soon turns into
a headlong rush, and costs merely in
stragglers more ^nen than rear-g^ard
oombats would have cost, and besides
that extinguishes the last remnants of
courageous spirit.

A strong rear guard composed of
picked troops, commanded by the bravest
Mineral, and supported by the whole
army at critical moments, a careful
utilisation of ground, strong ambuscades
wherever the boldness of the enemy's
advanced guard, and the ground, afford
opportunity; in short, the preparation
and the system of regular small battles, —
these are the means of following this
principle*

The difficulties of a retreat are natu-
rally greater or less according as the
battle has been fought under more or
less favourable circumstances, and accord-
ing as it has been more or less obstinately
contested. The battle of Jena and Belle-
Alliance show how impossible anything
like a regular retreat may become, if the
last man is used up against a powerful
enemy.

Now and again it has been suggested
(Lloyd Billow) to divide for the purpose of
retreating, therefore to retreat in separate
divisions or even eccentrically. Such a
separation as is made merely for con-
venience, and along with which con-
centrated action continues possible and
is kept in view, is not what we now
refer to : any other kind is extremely
dangerous, contrary to the nature of the
thing, and therefore a great error. Every
lost battle is a principle of weakness and
disorganisation ; and the first and imme-
diate desideratum is to concentrate, and in
concentration to recover order, courage,
and confidence. The idea of harassing the
enemy by separate corps on both flanks
at the moment when he is following up
his victory, is a perfect anomaly; a
faint-hearted pedant might be overawed
by his enemy in that manner, and for
such a case it may answer ; but where
we are not sure of this failing in our
opponent it is better let alone. If the
strategic relations after a battle require
that we should cover ourselves right
and left by detached corps, so much
must be done, as from circumstances is

CHA.P. XIV.]

NIGET COMBAT.

161

nnavoidable, but this fraotioning must
always be regarded aa an evil, an4 we
are seldom in a state to commence ii
the day after the battle itself.

If Frederick the Qreat after the battle
of Oollin, and the raising of the siege of
Prague retreated in three columns, that
was done not out of choice, but because
the position of his forces, and the neces-
sity of covering Saxony, left him no
alternative. Buonaparte after the battle

of Brienne, senlj, Marmont back to the
Aube, whilst he himself passed the Seine,
and turned towards Troyes; but that
this did not end in disaster, was solely
owing to the circumstance that the Allies,
instead of pursuing, divided their forces
in lika manner, turned with the one part
(Blucher) towards the Marne, while
with ti(e other (Schwartzenberg), from
fear of being too weak, they skdrano«d
quite slowly.

CHAPTER XIV.

NIGHT COMBAT.

The manner of conducting a combat at
night, and what concerns the details of
its course, is a tactical subject ; we only
examine it here so far as in its totality
it appears as a special strategic means.

FundamentaUy every night attack is
only a more vehement form of surprise.
Now at the first look of the thing such
an attack appears quite pre-eminently
advantageous, for we suppose the enemy
to be taken by sjirprise, the assailant
naturally to be prepared for every thing
which can happen. What an inequality !
Imagination paints to itself a picture of
the most complete confusion on the one
side, and on the other side the assailant
only occupied in reaping the fruits of
this state of things. Hence the constant
creation of schemes for night attacks
by those who have not to lead them,
and have no responsibility, whilst these
attacks seldom take place in reality.

These ideal schemes are all based on
the hypothesis that the assailant knows
the arrangements of the defender because
they have been made and announced be-

forehand ; and could not escape notice in
his reconnaissanoas, and enquiries ; that
on the other hand the measures of the
assailant, being only taken at the moment
of execution, cannot be known to the
enemy. But the last of these is not always
quite the case, and still less is the
first. If we are not so near the enemy
as to have him completely imder our
eye, as the Austrians had Frederick the
Great before the battle of Hochkirch,.
then all that we know of his position
must always be imperfect, as it is
obtained by reconnaissances, patrols,
information from prisoners, and spies,
sources on which no firm reliance can
be placed because intelligence thus
obtained is always more or less of an
old date, and the position of the enemy
may have been altered in the mean
time. Moreover, with the tactics and
mode of encampment of former times it
was much easier than it is now to
examine the position of the enemy. A
line of tents is much easier to disting^iish
than a line of huts or a bivouac ; and an

.

162

ON WAM,

[book nr.

encampment on a line of front, fully and
regularly drawn out, also easier than
one of diyisions formed in columns,
tlie mode often used at present. We
may have tho ground on which a division
l)ivouacs in that manner completely under
■our eye, and yet not be able to arrive
at any accurate idea.

But ^e position again is not all that
w« want to know ; the measures which the
•defender may take in the course of the
combat are just as important, and do not
by any means consist in mere random
shots. These measures also make night
attacks more difficult in modem wars
than formerly, because they have in these
wars an advantage over those already
taken. In our combats the position of the
defender is more temporary than defin-
itive, and on that accovnt the defender
in our wars is better able to surprise his
adversary with unexpected blows, than
he could formerly.

Therefore what the assailant knows of
the defensive previous to a night attack,
is seldom or never sufficient to supply the
want of direct observation.

But the defender has on his side an-
other small advantage as well, which is
that he is more at home than the assail-
ant, on the g^und which forms his posi-
tion, and therefore, like the inhabitant of
a room, will find his way about it in
the dark with more ease than a stranger.
He knows better where to find each
part of his force, and therefore can more
readily get at it than is the case with
the assailant.

From this it follows, that the assailant
in a combat at night wants his eyes
just as much as the defender, and that
therefore, only particular reasons can
Qiake a night attack advisable.

Now these reasons arise mostly in
connection with subordinate parts of an
army, rarely with the army itself ; hence
it follows that a night attack also as a
rule can only take place with secondary
combats, and seldom with g^eat battles.

We may attack a portion of the enemy's
army with a very superior force, con-
sequently enveloping it with a view
either to take the whole, or to inflict
very severe loss on it by an unequal
combat, provided that other circum-
stances are in our favour. But such a
scheme can never succeed except by a
gpreat surprise, because no fractional part
of the enemy's army would engage in
such an unequal combat, but would
retire instead. But a surprise on an
important scale except in rare instances
in a very close country, can only be
effected at night. If therefore we wish
to gain such an advantage as this from
the faulty disposition of a portion of the
enemy's army, then we must make use
of the night, at all events, to finish the
preliminary part even if the combat
itself should not open till towards day-
break. This is therefore what takes
place in all the little enterprises by night
against outposts, and other small bodies,
the main point being invariably through
superior numbers, and getting round his
position, to entangle him unexpectedly
in such a disadvantageous combat, that
he cannot disengage himself without
great loss.

The larger the corps attacked, the
more difficult the xmdertaking, because
a strong corps has greater resources
within itself to maintain the fight long
enough for help to arrive.

On that account the whole of the enemy's
army can never in ordinary cases be the
object of such an attack, for although it
has no assistance to expect from any
quarter outside itself, still, it contains
within itself sufficient means of repelling
attacks from several sides particularly in
our day, when every one from the com-
mencement is prepared for this very
usual form of attack. Whether the
enemy can attack us on several sides
with success, depends generally on con-
ditions quite different from that of its
being done unexpectedly ; without enter-

CHAP, xrv.]

NIGMT COMBAT,

163

ing here into the nature of ^ese con«
ditions, we confine ourselTes to otserring,
that with turning an enemy, great results,
but also great dangers are conn^cteil;
that therefore, if we set aside special
circumstances,, nothing justifies it but
a great superiority, just such as we should
use against a fractional part of the
enemy's army.

But the turning and surrounding a
small corps of the enemy, and particularly
in the darkness of night, is also more
practicable for this reason, that whatever
we stake upon it, and however superior
the force used may be, still probably it
constitutes only a limited portion of our
army, and we can sooner stake that than
the whole on the risk of a great venture.
Besides, the greater part or perhaps the
whole serves as a support and rallying
point for the portion risked, which again
very much diminishes the danger of the
enterprise.

Not only the risk, but the dif&culty of
execution as well confines night enter-
prises to small bodies. As surprise is
the real sense of them so also stealing
through is the chief condition of execu-
tion : but this is more easily done with
small bodies than with large, and for the
columns of a whole army is seldom practi-
cable. For this reason such enterprises
are in general only directed against
single outposts, and can only be feasible
against greater corps if they are without
sufficient outposts, like Frederick the
Great at Hochkirch. This will happen
seldomer in future to armies themselves
than to minor divisions.

In recent times, when war has been
carried on with so much more rapidity
and vigour, it has in consequence often
happened certainly that armies have
encamped veiy close to each other, with-
out having a very strong system of out-
posts, because those circumstances have
generally occurred just at the crisis
which precedes a g^eat decision. But
then at such times the readiness- for

battle on both sides i^ als<) more perfect :
on the other hand, in former wars it was
a frequent practice for armies to take up
camps in sight of each other, when they
had no other lobject but that of mutually
holding each other in check, consequently
for a longer period. How often Frederick
the Gh'eat stood for weeks so near to the *
Austrians, that the two might have ex-
changed cannon shots with each other.

But these practices, certainly more fa-
vourable to night attacks, have been dis-
continued in later wars ; 'and armies being
now no longer in regard to subsistence
and requirements for encampment, such
independent bodies complete in them-
selves, find it necessary to keep usually a
day's march between themselve» and
enemy. If we now keep in view specially
the night attaqk of an army, it follows
that sufficient motives for it can seldom
occur, and that they fall under one or
other of the following classes.

1. An unusual degree of carelessness
or audacity which very rarely occurs,
and when it does is compensated for by
a great superiority in moral force.

2. A panic in the enemy's army, or
generally such a degree of superiority
in moral force on our side, that this is
sufficient to supply the place of guid-
ance in action.

3. Cutting through an enemy's army of
superior force, which keeps us enveloped,
because in this all depends on surprise,
and the object of merely making a passage
by force, allows a much greater concen-
tration of forces.

4. Finally, in desperate cases, when our
forces have such a disproportion to the
enemy's, that we see no possibility of
success, except through extraordinary
daring.

But in all these cases there is still the
condition that the enemy's army is under
our eyes, and protected by no advanced
guard.

As for the rest, most night combats
are so conducted as to end with day light.

164 ^ our TTAB. [book iv.

BO that only the approach, and the first his adyersary ; and combats of this des-

attack are made under cover of darkneBs, cription which do not commence until day-

because the assailant ib that manner can break, in which the night therefore is

better profit by the fonsequences of the oaly made use of to approach, are not

st&te of dbnAiBion into which he throws to be counted as night combats.

V

ON WAR.

VOL. II.

IV CONTENTS. — VOL. II.

CHAP. PAOt

XX. A. — Defence of Swamps 14^

B, — Inundations .............. 147

XXI. Defence of Forests 160

XXII. The Cordon 161

XXIII. Key of the Country 164

XXIY. Operating against a Flank 167

XXV. Retreat into the Interior of the Country 164

XXVI. Arming the Nation 173

XXVII. Defence ofa Theatre of War 178

XXVIII. Defence ofa Theatre of War (coM^mKtfrf) 181

XXIX. Defence of a Theatre of War rronfmu^) — Successive Resistance 191

XXX. Defence ofa Theatre of War (conttntted) — When no Decision is sought for . . . 193

ON WAR.

BOOK V-MHITART FORCES.

CHAPTER I.

GENERAL SCHEME.

We shall consider military forces : —

1. As regards their numerical strength
and organisation.

2. In their state independent of fight-
ing.

3. In respect of their maintenance;
and, lastly y

4. In their general relations to country
and ground.

Thus we shall devote this book to the
consideration of things appertaining to

an army, which only come under the
head of necessary conditions of fighting ^
but do not constitute the fight itself.
They stand in more or less dose connec-
tion with and react upon the fighting,
and therefore, in considering the appli-
cation of the combat they must often
appear ; but we must first consider each
by itself, as a whole, in its essence and
peculiarities.

CHAPTER 11.

THEATRE OF WAR, ARMY, CAMPAIGN.

Tbe nature of the things does not allow
of a completely satisfactory definition of
these three factors, denoting respectively,
space, mass, and time in war ; but that
yoL. II.

we may not sometimes be quite misim-
derstood, we must try to make somewhat
plainer the usual meaning of these terms,
to which we shall in most cases adhere.

B

ON JFAJR,

[book v.

1.— Theatre of War.

This term denotes properly sucli a por-
tion of the space over which war prevails
as has its boundaries protectedi and thus
possesses a kind of independence. This
protection may consist in fortresses, or
important natural obstacles presented by
the country^ or even in its being sepa-
rated by a considerable distance from
the rest of the space embraced in the war.
— Such a portion is not a mere piece of
the whole, but a small whole complete
in itself; and consequently it is more or
less in such a condition that changes
which take place at other points in the
seat of war have only an indirect and no
direct influence upon it. To give an
adequate idea of this, we may suppose
that on this portion an advance is made,
whilst in another quarter ^ retreat is
taking place, or that upon the one an
army is acting defensively, whilst an
offensive is being carried on upon the
other. Such a clearly defined idea as
this is not capable of universal applica-
tion ; it is here used merely to indicate
the line of distinction.

2. — Army.

With the assistance of the conception
of a Theatre of War, it is very easy to
say what an Army is : it is, in point of
fact, the mass of troops in the same
Theatre of War. But this plainly does
not include all that is meant by the term
in its common usage. BlUcher and Wel-
lington commanded each a separate army
in 1815, although the two were in the
same Theatre of War. The chief com-
mand is, therefore, another distinguish-
ing sign for the conception of an Army.
At the same time this sign is very nearly
allied to the preceding, for where things
are well organised, there should only
exist one supreme command in a Theatre
of War, and the commander-in-chief in
a particular Theatre of War should al-

ways have a proportionate degree of in-
dependence.

The mere absolute numerical strength
of a body of troops is less decisive on the
subject than might at flrst appear. For
where several Armies are acting under
one command, and upon one and the
same Theatre of War, they are called
Armies, not by reason of their strength,
but from the relations antecedent to the
war (1813, the Silesian Army, the Army
of the North, etc.), and ^though we
should divide a great mass of troops in-
tended to remain in the same Theatre into
corps, we should never divide them into
Armies, at least, such a division woidd
be contrary to what seems to be the mean-
ing which is universally attached to the
term. On the other hand, it would cer-
tainly be pedantry to apply the term
Army to each band of irreg^ar troops
acting independently in a remote pro-
vince : still we must not leave unnoticed
that it surprises no one when the Army
of the Yendeans in the Bevolutionary
War is spoken of, and yet it was not
much stronger.

The conceptions of Army and Theatre
of War therefore, as a rule, go together,
and mutually include each other.

8. — Campaign,

Although the sum of all military events
which happen in all the Theatres of War
in one year is often called a Campaign,
still, however, it is more usual and more
exact to understand by the term the
events in one single Theatre of War. But
it is worse still to connect the notion of a
Campaign with the period of one year,
for wars no longer divide themselves
naturally into Campaigns of a year's
duration by fixed and long periods in
winter quarters. As, however, the events
in a Theatre of War of themselves form
certain g^eat chapters — if, for instance,
the direct effects of some more or less
great catastrophe cease, and new com-

CHAP, ni.]

THEATRE OF IFAB, ARMY, CAMPAIGN.

3

binations begin to develop themselves —
therefore these natural subdivisions must
be taken into consideration in order to
allot to each year( Campaign) its complete
share of events. No one would make the
Campaign of 1812 terminate at Memel,
where the armies were on thelst January,
and transfer the further retreat of the
French until they recrossed the Elbe to
the campaign of 1813, as that further

retreat was plainly only a part of the
whole retreat from Moscow.

That we cannot give these conceptions
any greater degree of distinctness is of
no consequence, because they cannot be
used as philosophical definitions for the
basis of any kind of propositions. They
only serve to give a little more clear-
ness and precision to the language we
use.

CHAPTER III.

RELATION OF POWER.

In the eighth chapter of the third book
we have spoken of the value of superior
numbers in battles, from which follows
as a consequence the superiority of num-
bers in general in strategy. So far the
importance of the relations of power is
established: we shall now add a few
more detailed considerations on the sub-
ject.

An unbiassed examination of modem
military history leads to the conviction
that the superiority in numbers becomes
every day more decisive; the principle
of assembling the greatest possible num-
bers for a decisive battle may therefore
be regarded as more important than ever.

Courage and the spirit of an army
have, in all ages, multiplied its physical
powers, and wiU continue to do so equally
in future; but we find also that at certain
periods in history a superiority in the
organisation and equipment of an army
has g^ven a g^eat moral preponderance ;
we find that at other periods a great su-
periority in mobility had a like efiect; at
one time we see a new system of tactics
brought to light ; at another we see the

art of war developing itself in an effort
to make a skilful use of ground on great
general principles, and by such means
here and there we find one general gaining
great advantages over another ; but even
this tendency has disappeared, and wars
now go on in a simpler and more natural
manner. — ^If, divesting ourselves of any
preconceived notions, we look at the ex-
periences of recent wars, we must admit
that there are but little traces of any of
the above influences, either throughout
any whole campaign, or in engagements
of a decisive character — that is, the great
battle, respecting which term we refer to
the second chapter of the preceding book.
Armies are in our days so much on a
par in regard to arms, equipment, and
drill, that there is no very notable dif-
ference between the best and the worst
in these things. A difference may still
be observed, resulting from the superior
instruction of the scientific corps, but in
general it only amounts to this, that one
is the inventor and introducer of im-
proved appliances, which the other im-
mediately imitates. Even the subor-

ON WAR.

[book ▼.

dinate generals, leaders of corps and
divisions, in all that comes within the
scope of their sphere, have in general
everywhere the same ideas and methods,
so that, except the talent of the com-
mander-in-chief— a thing entirely de-
pendent on chance, and not bearing a
constant relation to the standard of edu-
cation amongst the people and the army —
there is nothing now but habituation to
war which can give one army a decided
Buperiority over another. The nearer we
approach to a state of equality in all
these things, the more decisive becomes
the relation in point of numbers.

The character of modern battles is the
result of this state of equality. Take
for instance the battle of Borodino,
where the first army in the world, the
French, measured its strength with the
Eussian, which, in mtmy parts of its
organisation, and in the education of its
special branches, might be considered
the furthest behindhand. In the whole
battle there is not one single trace of
superior art or intelligence, it is a mere
trial of strength between the respective
armies throughout; and as they were
nearly equal in that respect, the result
could not be otherwise than a gradual
turn of the scale in favour of that side
where there was the greatest energy on
the part of the commander, and the most
experience in war on the part of the
troops. We have taken this battle as an
illustration, because in it there was an
equality in the numbers on each side
such as is rarely to be found.

We do not maintain that all battles
exactly resemble this, but it shows the
dominant tone of most of them.

In a battle in which the forces try
their strength on each other so leisurely
and methodically, an excess of force on
one side must make the result in its
favour much more certain. And it is a
fact thai we may search modem military
history in vain for a battle in which an
army has beaten another double its own

strength, an occurrence by no means un-
common in former times. Buonaparte,
the greatest general of modem times, in
all his great victorious battles — with one
exception, that of Dresden, 1813 — had
managed to assemble an army superior
in numbers, or at least very little inferior,
to that of his opponent, and when it was
impossible for lum to do so, as at Leipsic,
Brienne, Laon, and Belle-Alliance, he
was beaten.

The absolute strength is in strategy
generally a given quantity, which the
commander cannot alter. But from this
it by no moans follows that it is impos-
sible to carry on a war with a decidedly
inferior force. War is not always a volun-
tary act of state policy, and least of all
is it so when the forces are very unequal:
consequently, any relation of forces is
imaginable in war, and it would be a
strange theory of war which would wish
to give up its office just where it is most
wanted.

However desirable theory may consider
a proportionate force, still it cannot say
that no use can be made of the most dis-
proportionate. No limits can be pre-
scribed in this respect.

The weaker the force the more mode-
rate must be the object it proposes to it-
self, and the weaker the force the shorter
time it will last. In these two directions
there is a field for weakness to give
way, if we may use this expression. Of
the changes which the measure of the
force produces in the conduct of war, we
can only speak by degrees, as these
things present themselves; at present
it is sufficient to have indicated the gene-
ral point of view, but to complete that
we shall add one more observation.

The more that an army involved in an
unequal combat falls short of the number
of its opponents, the greater must be the
tension of its powers, the greater its
energy when danger presses. If the re-
verse takes place, and instead of heroic
desperation a spirit of despondency en«

CHAP. IV.]

RMATION OF THE THREE ARMS,

Bues, then certainly there is an end to
every art of war.

If with this energy of powers is com-
bined a wise moderation in the object
proposed, then there is that play of
brilliant actions and prudent forbear-
ance which we admire in the wars of
Frederick the Qreat.

But the less that this moderation and
caution can effect, the more must the ten-
sion and energy of the forces become
predominant When the disproportion
of forces is so great that no modification
of our own object can ensure us safety
from a catastrophe, or where the pro-

bable continuance of the danger is so
g^reat that the greatest economy of our
powers can no longer suffice to bring us
to our object, then the tension of our
powers should be concentrated for one
desperate blow; he who is pressed on
all sides expecting little help from things
which promise none, will place his last
and only reliance in the moral ascendancy
which despair g^ves to courage, and look
upon the greatest daring as the greatest
wisdom, — at the same time employ the
assistance of subtle stratagem, and if he
does not succeed, will find in an honour-
able downfall the right to rise hereafter.

CHAPTER IV.

RELATION OF THE THREE ARMS.

We shall only speak of the three princi-
pal arms: Infantry, Cavalry, and Artil-
lery.

We must be excused for making the
following analysis which belongs more
to tactics, but is necessary to give dis-
tinctness to our ideas.

The combat is of two kinds, which are
essentially different: the destructive
principle of fire, and the hand to hand
or personal combat. This latter, again,
is either attack or defence. (As we here
speak of elements, attack and defence
are to be understood in a perfectly abso-
lute sense.) Artillery, obviously, acts
only with the destructive principle of
fire. Cavalry only with personal combat.
Infantry with both.

In close combat the essence of defence
consists in standing firm, as if rooted to
the ground; the essence of the attack
is movement. Cavalry is entirely defi-
cient in the first quality ; on the other

hand, it possesses the latter in an especial
manner. It is therefore only suited for
attack. Infantry has especially the pro-
perty of standing firm, but is not alto-
gether without mobility.

From this division of the elementary
forces of war into different arms, we have
as a result, the superiority and general
utility of Infantry as compared with the
other two arms, firom its being the only
arm which unites in itself all the three
elementary forces. A further deduction
to be drawn is, that the combination of
the three arms leads to a more perfect,
use of the forces, by affording the means
of strengthening at pleasure either the
one or the other of the principles which
are united in an unalterable manner in
Infantry.

The destructive principle of fire is in
the wars of the present time plainly be-
yond measure the most effective ; never-
theless, the close combat, man to man,

6

ON WAR.

[book ▼.

is just as plainly to be regarded as
the real basis of combat. For that
reasoD, therefore, an army of artilleiy
only would be an absurdity in war, but
an army of cavalry is conceivable, only
it would possess very little intensity of
force. An army of infantry alone is not
only conceivable but also much the strong-
est of the three. The three arms, there-
fore, stand in this order in reference to
independent value — Infantry, Cavalry,
Artillery.

But this order does not hold good if
applied to the relative importance of each
arm when they are all three acting in
conjunction. As the destructiye princi-
ple is much more effective than the prin-
ciple of motion, therefore the complete
want of cavalry would weaken an army
less than the total want of artillery.

An army consisting of infantry and
artillery alone, would certainly find itself
in a disagreeable position if opposed to
an army composed of all three arms ; but
if what it lacked in cavalry was compen-
sated for by a proportionate increase of
infantry, it would still, by a somewhat
different mode of acting, be able to do
very well with its tactical economy. Its
outpost service would cause some embar-
rassment ; it would never be able to pur-
sue a beaten enemy with great vivacity,
and it must make a retreat with greater
hardships and efforts ; but these incon-
veniences would still never be sufficient
in themselves to drive it completely out
of the field. — On the other hand, such
an army opposed to one composed of in-
fantry and cavalry only would be able
to play a very good part, while it is
nardly conceivable that the latter could
keep the field at all against an army
made up of all three arms.

Of course these reflections on the rela-
tive importance of each single arm result
only from a consideration of the gene-
rality of events in war, where one case
compensates another; and therefore it
is not our intention to apply the truth

thus ascertained to each individual case
of a particular combat. A battalivi on
outpost service or on a retreat may, per-
haps, choose to have with it a squadron
in preference to a couple of guns. A
body of cavalry with horse artillery, sent
in rapid pursuit of, or to cut ofi^ a flying
enemy wants no infantry, etc., etc.

If we summarise the results of these
considerations they amount to this.

1. That infantry is the most independ<
ent of the three arms.

2. Artillery is quite wanting in inde-
pendence.

3. Infantry is the most important in
the combination of the three arms.

4. Cavalry can the most easily be dis-
pensed with.

5. A combination of the three aims
g^ves the greatest strength.

Now, if the combination of the three
g^ves the greatest strength, it is natural
to inquire what is the best absolute pro-
portion of each, but that is a question
which it is almost impossible to answer.

If we could form a comparative esti«
mate of the cost of organising in the first
instance, and then provisioning and
maintaining each of the three arms,
and then again of the relative amount of
service rendered by each in war, we
should obtain a definite resxdt which
would give the best proportion in the
abstract. But this is little more than a
play of the imagination. The very first
term in the comparison is difficult to de-
termine, that is to say, one of the factors,
the cost in money, is not difficult to find;
but another, the value of men's lives,
is a computation which no one would
readily try to solve by figures.

Also the circumstance that each of the
three arms chiefly depends on a different
element of strength in the state— Infan-
try on the number of the male popula-
tion, cavalry on the number of horses,
artillery on available financial means— ^
introduces into the calculation some hete-
rogeneous conditions, the overruling influ-

OBAP. nr.]

RELATION OF THE THREE ARMS.

ence of which may be plainly observed
in tha great outHnes of the history of
different people at various periods.

As, however, for other reasons we can-
not altogether dispense with some stan-
dard of comparison, therefore, in place of
the whole of the first term of the com-
parison we must take only that one of
its factors which can be ascertained,
namely, the cost in money. Now on this
point it is sufficient for our purpose to
assume that, in general, a squadron of
150 horsemen, a battalion of infantry
800 strong, a battery of artillery consist-
ing of 8 six-pounders, cost nearly the
same, both as respects the expense of
formation and of maintenance.

With regard to the other member of
the comparison, that is, how much ser-
vice the one arm is capable of rendering
as compared with the others, it is much
less easy to find any distinct quantity.
The thing might perhaps be possible if
it depended merely on the destroying
principle ; but each arm is destined to
its own particular use, therefore has its
own particular sphere of action, which,
again, is not so distinctly defined that it
might not be greater or less through
modifications only in the mode of con-
ducting the war, without causing any
decided disadvantage.

We are often told of what experience
teaches on this subject, audit is supposed
that military history affords the informa-
tion necessary for a settlement of the
question, but every one must look upon
all that as nothing more than a way of
talking, which, as it is not derived from
anything of a primary and necessary
nature, does not deserve attention in an
analytical examination.

Now although a fixed ratio as repre-
senting the best proportion between the
three arms is conceivable, but is an x
which it is impossible to find, a mere
imaginary quantity, still it is possible to
appreciate the effects of having a great
superiority or a great inferiority in one

particular arm as compared with the
same arm in the enemy's army.

Artillery increases the destructive prin-
ciple of fire ; it is the most redoubtable of
arms, and its want, therefore, diminished
very considerably the intensive force of
an army. On the other hand, it is the
least moveable, consequently, makes an
army more unwieldy ; further, it always
requires a force for ite support, because
it is incapable of close combat ; if it is
too numerous, so that the troops appointed
for its protection are not able to resist
the attacks of the enemy at every point,
it is often lost, and from that follows a
fresh disadvantage, because of the three
arms it is the only one which in its
principal parts, that is guns and carriages,
the enemy can soon use against us.

Cavalry increases the principle of
mobility in an army. If too few in
number the brisk flame of the elements
of war is thereby weakened, because
everything must be done slower (on
foot), everything must be organised with
more care ; the rich harvest of victory,
instead of being cut with a scythe, can
only be reaped with a sickle.

An excess of cavalry can certainly
never be looked upon as a direct diminu-
tion of the combatant force, as an organic
disproportion, but it may certainly be so
indirectly, on account of the difficulty of
feeding that arm, and also if we reflect
that instead of a surplus of 10,000
horsemen not required we might have
50,000 infantry.

These peculiarities arising from the
preponderance of one arm are the more
important to the art of war in its limited
sense, as that art teaches the use of what-
ever forces are forthcoming ; and when
forces are placed under the command of
a general, the proportion of the three
arms is also commonly already settled
without his having had much voice in
the matter.

If we would form an idea of the
character of warfare modified by the pre-

8

ON WAR.

r: »

[^pOK T.

ponderance of o&e or other of the three
arms ft is to be done in the following
manner : —

Am excess of artillery leads to a more
defensive and passive character in our
measures ; our interest will be to seek
security in strong positions, great natural
obstacles of ground, even in mountain
positions, in order that the natural
impediments we find in the ground may
undertake the defence and protection of
our numerous artillery, and that the
enemy's forces may come themselves and
seek their own destruction. The whole
war will be carried on in a serious formal
minuet step.

On the other hand, a want of artillery
will make us prefer the offensive, the
active, the mobile principle ; marching,
fatigue, exertion, become our special
weapons, thus the war will become more
diversified, more lively, rougher; small
change is substituted for great events.

"With a very numerous cavalry we
seek wide plains, and take to great
movements. At a greater distance from
the enemy we enjoy more rest and greater
conveniences without conferring the same
advantages on our adversary. We may
venture on bolder measures to outflank
him, and on more daring movements
generally, as we have command over
space. In as far as diversions and inva-
sions are true auxiliary means of war we
shall be able to make use of them with
greater facility.

A decided want of cavalry diminishes
the force of mobility in an army without
increasing its destructive^ power as an
excess of artUlery does. Prudence and
method become then the leading charac-
teristics of the war. Always to remain
near the enemy in order to keep him
constantly in view — no rapid, still less
hurried movements, everywhere a slow
pushing on of well concentrated masses
*-A preference for the defensive and for
broken country, and, when the offensive
must be resorted to, the shortest road

direct to the centre of force in the en«ny'a
army — these are the natural tendea^ies or
principles in such cases.

These different forms which warfare
takes according as one or other of the
three arms preponderates, seldom have
an influence so complete and decided
as alone, or chiefly to determine the
direction of a whole undertaking.
Whether we shall act strategically on
the offensive or defensive, the choice of
a theatre of war, the determination to
fight a great battle, or adopt some other
means of destruction, are points which
must be determined by other and more
essential considerations, at least, if this
is not the case, it is much to be feared
that we have mistaken minor details for
the chief consideration. But although
this is so, although the great questions
must be decided before on other grounds,
there still always remains a certain
margin for the influence of the prepon-
derating arm, for in the offensive we can
always be prudent and methodical, in the
defensive bold and enterprising, etc.,
etc., through all the different stages and
gradations of Ihe military life.

On the other hand, the nature of a war
may have a notable influence on the
proportions of the three arms.

First, a national war, kept up by militia
and a general levy (Landsturm), must
naturally bring into the field a very nu-
merous infantry ; for in such wars there
is a greater want of the means of equip-
ment than of men, and as the equipment
consequently is confined to what is in-
disputably necessaiy, we may easily ima«
gine, that for every battery of eight pieces,
not only one, but two or three battalions
might be raised.

Second, if a weak state opposed to a
powerful one cannot take ref^e in a
general call of the male population to
regular military service, or in a militia
system resembling it, then the increase
of its artillery is certainly ihe shortest
way of bringing up its weak army nearer

CHAPi lY.]

* HKLATION OF THE THREE. ARm.

9

to mi equality with that of the enemy,
for it aavee men, and intensifies the es-
sential principle of military force, that
is, the destructive principle. Any way,
such a state will mostly be confined to a
limited theatre, and therefore this arm
will be better suited to it. Frederick the
Great adopted this means in the later
period of the Seven Years' War.

Third, cavalry is the arm for movement
and great decisions ; its increase beyond
the ordinary proportions is therefore im-
portant if the war extends over a great
space, if expeditions are to be made in
various directions, and great and decisive
blows are intended. Buonaparte is an
example of this.

That the offensive and defensive do
not properly in themselves exercise an
influence on the proportion of cavalry
will only appear plainly when we come
to 8x>eak of these two methods of acting
in war ; in the meantime, we shall only
remark that both assailant and defender
as a rule traverse the same spaces in war,
and may have also, at least in many
cases, the same decisive intentions. We
remind our readers of the campaign of
1812.

It is commonly believed that, in the
middle ages, cavedry was much more nu-
merous in proportion to infantry, and
that the difi'erence has been gradually on
the decrease ever since. Yet this is a
mistake, at least partly. The proportion
of cavalry was, according to numbers, on
the average perhaps, not much greater ;
of this we may convince ourselves by
tracing, through the history of the middle
ages, the detaUed statements of the armed
forces then employed. Let us only think
of the masses of men on foot who com-
posed the armies of the Crusaders, or the
masses who followed the Emperors of Ger-
many on their Roman expeditions. It was
in reality the importance of the cavalry
which was so much greater in those days ;
it was the stronger arm, composed of the
flower of the people, so much so that.

although always ^ry m'u(^ weak^ actu-
ally in numbers, it was still alwltys looked
upon as the chief tiiung, infantry wa9
little valued, hardly spoken of ; hence ha3
arisen the belief that its numbers were
few. No doubt it happened oftener than
it does now, that in incursions of small
importance in France, Germany, and
Itfidy, a small army was composed entirely
of cavalry ; as it was the chief arm, there
is nothing inconsistent in that; but these
cases decide nothing if we take a general
view, as they are greatly outnumbered by
cases of greater armies of the period
constituted differently. It was only when
the obligations to military service im-
posed by the feudal laws had ceased,
and wars were ccuried on by soldiers
enlisted, hired, and paid — when, there-
fore, wars depended on money and
enlistment, that is, at the time of
the Thirty Tears* War, and the wars of
Louis XIY. — that this employment of
great masses of almost useless infantry
was checked, and perhaps in those days
they might have fallen into the exclusive
use of cavalry, if infantry had not just
then risen in^importance through the im-
provements in fire-arms, by which means
it maintained its numerical superiority in
proportion to cavalry ; at this period, if
infantry was weak, the proportion was
as one to one, if numerous as three to
one.

Since then cavalry has always de-
creased in importance according as im-
provements in the use of fire-arms have
advanced. This is intelligible enough in
itself, but the' improvement we speak of
does not relate solely to the weapon itself
and the skill in handliog it ; we advert
also to greater ability in using troops
armed with this weapon. At the battle
of MoUwitz the Prussian army had
brought the fire of their infantry to such
a state of perfection, that there has been
no improvement since then in that sense.
On the other hand, the use of infantry in
broken ground and as skirmishers has

10

ON WAR.

[book v.

been introduced more recently, and is to
be looked upon as a very great advance
in the art of destruction.

Out opinion is, thereforOi that the rela-
tion of cavalry has not much changed as
far as regards numbers, but as regards
its importance, there has been a great
alteration. This seems to be a contra-
diction, but is not so in reality. The
infantry of the middle ages, although
forming the greater proportion of an
army, did not attain to that proportion
by its value as compared to cavalry, but
because all that could not be appointed
to the very costly cavalry were handed
over to the infantry ; this infantry was,
therefore, merely a l9«t resource ; and if
the number of cavalry had depended
merely on the value set on that arm, it
could never have been too great. Thus
we can understand how cavalry, in spite
of its constantly decreasing importance,
may still, perhaps, have importance
enough to keep its numerical relation at
that point which it has hitherto so con-
stantly maintained.

It is a remarkable fact that, at least
since the wars of the Austrian succession,
the proportion of cavalry to infantry has
changed very little, the variation being
constantly between a fourth, a fifth or
a sixth ; this seems to indicate that
those proportions meet the natural re-
quirements of an army, and that those
numbers give the solution which it is
impossible to find in a direct manner.
We doubt, however, if this is the case,
and we find the principal instances of the
employment of a numerous cavalry suffi-
ciently accounted for by other causes.

Austria and Kussia are states which
have kept up a numerous cavalry, because
they retain in their political condition
the fragments of a Tartar organisation.
Buonaparte for his purposes could never
be strong enough in cavalry ; when he
had made use of the conscription as far
as possible, he had no ways of strength-
ening his armies, but by increasing the

auxiliary arms, as they cost him more in
money than in men. Besides this, it
stands to reason that in military enter-
prises of such enormous extent as his,
cavalry must have a greater value than in
ordinary cases.

Frederick the Great it is well known
reckoned carefully every recruit]that could
be saved to his country ; it was his great
business to keep up the strength of his
army, as far as possible at the expense of
other countries. His reasons for this are
easy to conceive, if we remember that
his small dominions did not then include
Prussia and the Westphalian provinces.
Cavalry was kept complete by recruit-
ment more easily tlian infantry, irres-
pective of fewer men beiug required;
in addition to which, his system of war
was completely founded on the mobility
of his army, and thus it was, that while
his infantry diminished in number, his
cavalry was always increasing itself till
the end of the Seven Years* War. Still at
the end of that war it was hardly more
than a fourth of the number of infantry
that he had in the field.

At the period referred to there is no
want of instances, also of armies entering
the field unusually weak in cavalry, and
yet carrying ofi* the victory. The most re-,
markable is the battle of Q-ross-gorschen.
If we only count the French divisions
which took part in the* battle, Buonaparte
was 100,000 strong, of which 5,000 were
cavalry, 90,000 infantry; the Allies had
70,000, of which 25,000 were cavaliyand
40,000 infantry. Thus, in place of the
20,000 cavalry on the side of the Allies in
excess of the total of the French cavalry,
Buonaparte had only 50,000 additional
infantry when he ought to have liad
100,000. As he gained the battle with
that superiority in infantry, we may ask
whether it was at all likely that he would
have lost it if the proportions had been
140,000 to 40,000.

Certainly the great advantage of our su-
periority in cavalry was shown imme-

CHAP, v.]

ORDER OF BATTLE OF AN ARMY,

11

diatelj after the battle^ for Buonaparte
gained hardly any trophies by his vic-
tory. The gain of a battle is therefore
not everything, — but is it not always the
chief thing ?

If we put together these considerations,
we can hardly believe that the numerical
proportion between cavalry and infantry
which has existed for the last eighty
years is the natural one, founded solely
on their absolute value; we are much
rather inclined to think, that after many
fluctuations, the relative proportions of
these arms will change further in the
same direction as hitherto, and that the
fixed number of cavalry at last will be
considerably less.

With respect to artillery, the number
of guns has naturally increased since its
first invention, and according as it has
been made lighter and otherwise im-
proved ; still since the time of Frederick
the Great, it has also kept very much to
the same proportion of two or three guns
per 1,000 men, we mean at the com-
mencement of a campaign ; for during
its coarse artillery does not melt away as
fast as infantry, therefore at the end of
a campaign the proportion is generally

notably greater, perhaps thxee, four, or five
guns per 1,000 men. Whether this is the
natural proportion, or that the increase of
artillery may be carried still further, With-
out prej udice to the whole conduct of war,
must be left for experience to decide.

The principal results we obtain from
the whole of these considerations, are —

1 . That infantry is the chief arm, to
which the other two are subordinate.

2. That by the exercise of great skill
and energy in command, the want of the
two subordinate arms may in some
measure be compensated for, provided
that we are much stronger in infantry ;
and the better the infantry the easier
this may be done.

3. That it is niore difficult to dispense
with artillery than with cavalry, because
it is the chief principle of destruction,
and its mode of fighting is more amal-
gamated with that of infantry.

4. That artillery being the strongest
arm, as regards destructive action, and
cavalry the weakest in that respect, the
question must in general arise, how much
artillery can we have without inconveni-
ence, and what is the least proportion of
cavalry we require ?

CHAPTER V.

ORDER OF BATTLE OF AN ARMY.

The order of battle is that division and
formation of the different arms into sepa-
rate parts or sections of the whole Army,
and that form of general position or dispo-
sition of those parts which is to be the norm
throughout the whole campaign or war.

It consists, therefore, in a certain mea-
sure, of an arithmetical an^ a geometri-
cal element, the division and the form
of disposition. The first proceeds from

the permanent peace organisation of the
army ; adopts as units certain parts,
such as battalions, squadrons, and bat-
teries, and with them forms imits of a
higher order up to the highest of all, the
whole army, according to the require-
ments of predominating circumstances.
In like manner, the form of disposition
comes from the elementary tactics, in
which the army is instructed and exer-

12

ON WAR.

[book v.

cised in time of peace, which must be
looked upon as a property in the troops
that cannot be essentially modified at the
moment war breaks ou^ the disposition
connects these tactics with the conditions
which the use of the troops in war and in
large masses demands, and thus it settles
in a general way the rule or norm in con-
formity with which the troops are to be
drawn up for battle.

This has been invariably the case when
great armies have taken the field, and
there have been times when this form
was considered as the most essential part
of the battle.

In the seventeenth and eighteenth cen-
turies, when the improvements in the fire-
arms of infantry occasioned a great in-
crease of that arm, and allowed of its
being deployed in such long thin lines,
the order of battle was thereby simplified,
but, at the same time it became more
difficult and more artificial in the carrying
out, and as no other way of disposing of
cavalry at the commencement of a battle
was known but that of posting them on
the wings, where they were out of the fire
and had room to move, therefore in the
order of battle the army always became
a closed inseparable whole. If such an
army was divided in the middle, it was
like SA earthworm cut in two: the wings
had still life and the power of motion,
but they had lost their natural functions.
The army lay, therefore, in a manner
under a 8j)ell of unity, and whenever any
part's of it had to be placed in a sepa-
rate ]>osition, a small organisation and
disorganisation became necessary. The
marches which the whole army had to
make were a condition in which, to a cer-
tain extent, it found itself out of rule.
If the enemy was at hand, the march had
to be arranged in the most artificial man-
ner, and in order that one line or one
wing might be always at the prescribed
distance firom the other, the troops had
to scramble over everything : marches had
Ibo constantly to be stolen from the ene-

my, and this perpetual theft only escaped
severe punishment through one circusi-
stance, which was, that the enemy lay
under the same ban.

Hence, when, in the latter half of the
eighteenth century, it was discovered that
cavalry would serve just as well to pro-
tect a wing if it stood in rear of the army
as if it were placed on the prolongation
of the line, and that, besides this, it
might be applied to other purposes than
merely fighting a duel with the enemy's
cavalrp', a great step in advance was
made, because now the army in its prin-
cipal extension or front, which is always
the breadth of its order of battle (posi-
tion), consisted entirely of homogeneous
members, so that it could be formed of
any number of parts at pleasure, each

?art like another and like the whole,
n this way it ceased to be one single
piece and became an articulated whole,
consequently pliable and manageable :
the parts might be separated from the
whole and then joined on again without
difficulty, the order of battle always re-
mained the same.— Thus arose the corps
consisting of all arms, that is, thus such
an organisation became possible, for the
want of it had been felt long before.

That all this relates to the combat is
very natural. The battle was formerly
the wliole war, and will always continue
to be the principal part of it; but, the
order of battle belongs generally more
to tactics than strategy, and it is only in-
troduced here to show how tactics in or-
ganising the whole into smaller wholes
made preparations for strategy.

The greater armies become, the more
they are distributed over wide spaces
and the more diversified the action and
reaction of the different parts amongst
themselves, the wider becomes the field of
strategy, and, therefore, then the order
of battle, in the sense of our definition,
must also come into a kind of reciprocal
action with strategy, which manifests
itself chiefiy at the extreme points where

CHAP, v.]

ORDER OF BATTLE OF AN ARMY.

13

tactics and strategy meet, that is, at
those moments when the general distri-
bution of the Qombatant forces passes
into the special dispositions for the com-
bat

We now turn to those three points,
the division, combination of arms, and
order of hattU {dispontion) in a strategic
point of view.

1. — Division,

In strategy we must never ask what
is to be the strength of « division or a
corps, but how many corps or division
an army should have. There is nothing
more unmanageable than an army divided
into three parts, except it be one divided
into only two, in wluch case the chief
command must be almost neutralised.

To fix the strength of great and
small corps, either on the grounds of
elementary tactics or on higher grounds,
leaves an incredibly wide field for arbi-
trary judgment, and heaven knows what
strange modes of reasoning have sported
in this wide field. On the other hand,
the necessity of forming an independent
whole (army) into a certain number of
parts is a thing as obvious as it is posi-
tive, and this idea furnishes real strate-
gic motives for determining the number
of the greater divisions of an army, con-
sequently their strength, whilst the
strength of the smaller divisions, such
as companies, battalions, etc., is left to be
determined by tactics.

We can hardly imagine the smallest
independent body in which there are not
at least three parts to be distinguished,
that one part may be thrown out in ad*
vance, ana another part be left in rear :
that four is still more convenient follows
of itself, if we keep in view that the
middle part, being the principal division,
ought to be stronger than either of the
others ; in this way, we may proceed to
make out eight, which appears to us to
be the most suitable number for an army

if we take one part for an advanced guard
as a constant necessity, three for the
main body, that is a right wing, centre
and left wing, two divisions for reserve,
and one to detach to the right, one to
the left. Without pedantically ascribing
a great importance to these numbers
and figures, we certainly believe that they
represent the most usual and frequently
recurring strategic disposition, and on
that account one that is convenient.

Certainly it seems that the supreme di-
rection of an army (and the direction of
every whole) must be greatly facilitated if
there are only three or four subordinates
to command, but the commander-in-chief
must pay dearly for this convenience in a
twofold manner. In the first place, an
order loses in rapidity, force, and exact-
ness if the gradation ladder down which it
has to descend is long, and this must be
the case if there are corps-commanders
between the division leaders and the
chief ; secondly, the chief loses generally
in his own proper power and efficiency
the wider the spheres of action of his
immediate subordinates become. A ge-
neral commanding 100,000 men in eight
divisions exercises a power which is
greater in intensity than if the 100,000
men were divided into only three corps.
There are many reasons for this, but the
most important is that each commander
looks upon himself as having a kind of
proprietary right in his own corps, and
always opposes the withdrawal from him
of any portion of it for a longer or shorter
time. A little experience of war will
make this evident to any one.

But on the other hand the number of
divisions must not be too great, otherwise
disorder will ensue. It is difficult enough
to manage eight divisions from, one head
quarter, and the number should never be
allowed to exceed ten. But in a division
in which the means of circulating orders
are much less, the smaller normal number
four, or at most five, may be regarded as
the more suitable.

14

ON WAR.

[book v.

If these factors, five and ten, will not
answer, that is, if the brigades are too
strong, then corps Sannee must be intro-
duced ; but we must remember that by
BO doing, a new power is created, which at
once very much lowers all other factors.

But now, what is too strong a bri-
gade ? The custom is to make them from
2,000 to (5,000 men strong, and there
appear to be two reasons for making the
latter number the limit ; the first is that
a brigade is supposed to be a subdivision
which can be commanded by one man
directly, that is, through the compass of
his voice : the second is that any larger
body of infantry should not be lefl veith-
out artillery, and through this first com-
bination of arms a special division of
itself is formed.

We do not wish to involve ourselves
in these tactical subtilties, neither shall
we enter upon the disputed point, where
and in what proportions the combination
of all three arms should take place,
whether with divisions of 8,000 to 12,000
men, or with corps which are 20,000 to
80,000 men strong. The most decided op-
ponent of these combinations will scarcely
take exception at the mere assertion, that
nothing but this combination of the three
arms can make a division independent,
and that therefore, for such as are
intended to be frequently detached se-
parately, it is at least very desirable.

An army of 200,000 men in ten divi-
sions, the divisions composed of five
brigades each, would give brigades 4,000
strong. We see here no dispropor-
tion. Certainly this army might also be
divided into five corps, the corps into
four divisions, and the division into four
brigades, which makes the brigade 2,500
men strong ; but the first distribution,
looked at in the abstract, appears to us
preferable, for besides that, in the other,
there is one more gradation of rank, five
parts are too few to make an army ma-
nageable ; four divisions, in like manner,
are too few for a corps, and 2,500 men

is a weak brigade, of which, in this
manner, there are eighty, whereas the
first formation has only fifty, and is
therefore simpler. All these advantages
are given up merely for the sake of hav-
ing only to send orders to half as many
generals. Of course the distribution into
corps is still more unsuitable for smaller
armies.

This is the abstract view of the case.
The particular case may present good
reasons for deciding otherwise. Likewise,
we must admit that, although eight or
ten divisions may be directed when
united in a level country, in widely ex-
tended mountain positions the thing
might perhaps be impossible. A g^at
river which divides an army into halves,
makes a commander for each half indis-
pensable ; in short, there are a hundred
local and particular objects of the most
decisive character, before which all
rules must give way.

But still, experience teaches us, that
these abstract grounds come most fre-
quently into use and are seldomer over-
ruled by others than we should perhaps
suppose.

We wish further to explain clearly
the scope of the foregoing considerations
by a simple outline, for which purpose
we now place the different points of most
importance next to each other.

As we mean by the term numbers, or
part« of a whole, only those which are
made by the primary, therefore the im-
mediate division, we say.

1. If a whole has too few members it
is unwieldy.

2. If the parts of a whole body are
too large, the power of the superior will
is thereby weakened.

3. With every additional step through
which an order has to pass, it is weakened
in two ways : in one way by the loss of
force, which it suffers in its passage
through an additional step; in another
way by the longer time in its trans-
mission.

CHAP, v.]

ORDER OF BATTLE OF AN ARMY.

15

The tendency of all this is to show
that the number of co-ordinate divisions
should be as ^eat, and the gradational
steps as few as possible ; and the only
limitation to this conclusion is, that in
armies no more thaa from eight to ten,
and in subordinate corps no more than
from four or at most six, subdivisions can
be conveniently directed.

2. — Combination of Arms,

For strategy the combination of the
three arms in the order of battle is only
important in regard to those parts of
the army which, according to the usual
order of things, are likely to be frequently
employed in a detached position, where
they may be obliged to engage in an
independent combat. Now it is in
the nature of things, that the members
of the first class, and for the most part
only these, are destined for detached posi-
tions, because, as we shall see elsewhere,
detcLched positions are most generally
adopted upon the supposition and the
necessity of a body independent in itself.

In a strict sense strategy would there-
fore only require a permanent combina-
tion of arms in army corps, or where
these do not exist, in divisions, leaving it
to circumstances to determine when a
provisional combination of the three
arms shall be made in subdivisions of an
inferior order.

But it is easy to see that, when
corps are of considerable size, such as
30,000 or 40,000 men, they can seldom
find themselves in a situation to take up
a completely connected position in mass.
With corps of such strength, a combina-
tion of the arms in the divisions is there-
fore necessary. No one who has had any
experience in war, will treat lightly the
delay which occurs when pressing mes-
sages have to be sent to some other

perhaps distant point before cavalry can
be brought to the support of infantry —
to say nothing of the confusion which
takes place.

The details of the combination of the
three arms, how far it should extend,
how low down it should be carried,
what proportions should be observed,
the strength of the reserves of each to
be set apart — these are all purely tactical
considerations.

3. — The Disposition,

The determination as to the relations
in space, according to which the parts of
an aiTdy amongst themselves are to be
drawn up in order of battle, is likewise
completely a tactical subject, referring^
solely to the battle. No doubt there
is also a strategic disposition of the
parts ; but it depends almost entirely on
determinations and requirements of the
moment, and what there is in it of the
rational, does not come within the mean-
ing of the term ** order of battle." We
shall therefore treat of it in the follow-
ing chapter under the head of Disposition
of an Army.

The order of battle of an army is
therefore the organisation and disposi-
tion of it in mass ready prepared for
battle. Its parts are united in such a
manner that both the tactical and strate-
gical requirements of the moment can be
easily satisfied by the employment of
single parts drawn from the general
mass. When such momentary exigency
has passed over, these parts resume their
original place, and thus the order of
battle becomes the first step to, and
principal foundation of, that wholesome
methodicism which, like the beat of
a pendulum, regulates the work in war,
and of which we have already spoken in
the fourth chapter of the Second Book.

16

ON WAR.

[book v.

CHAPTER VL

GENERAL DISPOSITION OF AN ABMY.

Betwebn the moment of the first as-
sembling of military forces, and that of
the solution arrived at maturity when
strategy has brought the army to the
decisive point, and each particular part
has had its position and role pointed out
by tactics, there is in most cases a long
interval ; it is the same between one
decisive catastrophe and another.

Formerly these intervals in a certain
measure did not belong to war at all.
Take for example the manner in which
Luxemburg encamped and marched.
We single out this general because he is
celebrated for his camps and marches,
and therefore may be considered a re-
presentative general of his period, and
from the Hiitoire de la Flandre militaire,
we know more about him than about
other generals of the time.

The camp was regularly pitched with
its rear close to a river, or morass, or a
deep valley, which in the present day
would be considered madness. The
direction in which the enemy lay had so
little to do with determining the front of
the army, that cases are very common in
which the rear was towards the enemy
and the front towards their own country.
This now imheard of mode of proceeding
is perfectly unintelligible, unless we
suppose that in the choice of oamps the
convenience of the troops was the chief,
indeed almost the only consideration, and
therefore look upon the state of being
in camp as a state outside of the action
of war, a kind of withdrawal behind the
scenes, where one is quite at ease.
The practice of always resting the rear
upon some obstacle may be reckoned the

only measure of security which was then
taken, of course, in the sense of the mode
of conducting war in that day, for such
a measure was quite inconsistent with
the possibility of being compelled to fight
in that position. But there was little
reason for apprehension on that score,
because the battles generally depended
on a kind of mutual understanding, like
a duel, in which the parties repair to a
convenient rendezvous. As armies, partly
on account of their numerous cavalry,
which in the decline of its splendour was
still regarded, particularly by the French,
as the principal arm, partly on account
of the unwieldy organisation of their
order of battle, could not fight in every
description of country, an army in a close
broken countiy was as it were under
the protection of a neutral territory, and
as it could itself make but little use
of broken ground, therefore, it was
deemed preferable to go to meet aa
enemy seeking battle. We know, indeed,
that Luxemburg's battles at Fleums,
Stienkirk, and Neerwinden, were con-
ceived in a different spirit; but this
spirit had only just then under this
great general freed itself from the old
method, and it had not yet reacted on
the method of encampment. Alterations
in the art of war originate always in
matters of a decisive nature, and then
lead by degrees to modifications in other
things. The expression tl va d la gHerrtf
used in reference to a partisan setting
out to watch the enemy, shows how little
the state of an army in camp was con-
sidered to be a state of real warfare.
It was not much otherwise with the

CHAP. VI.]

GENERAL DISPOSITION OF AN ARMY,

17

marches, for tlie artiUerj then separated
itself completely from the rest of the
armj, in order to take advantage of
better and more secure roads, and the
cavalry on the wings generally took the
right alternately^ that each might have
in turn its share of the honour of
marching on the right.

At present (that is, chiefly since the
Silesian wars) the situation out of battle
is so thoroughly influenced by its connec-
tion with battle that the two states are
in intimate correlation, and the one
can no longer be completely imagined
without the other. Formerly in a cam-
paign the battle was the real weapon,
the situation at other times only the
handle — the former the steel blade, the
other t^e wooden haft glued to it, the
whole therefore composed of heteroge-
neous parts, — now the battle is the
edge, the situation out of the battle the
back of the blade, the whole to be looked
upon as metal completely welded together,
in which it is impossible any longer to
distinguish where the steel ends and the
iron begins.

This state in war outside of the battle is
now partly regulated by the organisation
and regulations with which the army
comes prepared from a state of peace,
partly by the tactical and strategic
arrangements of the moment. The three
situations in which an army may be
placed are in quarters, on a march, or in
camp. All three belong as much to tactics
as to strategy, and these two branches,
bordering on each other here in many
ways, often seem ' to, or actually do,
incorporate themselves with each other,
so that many dispositions may be looked
upon at the same time as both tactical
and strategic.

We shall treat of these three situations
of an army outside of the combat in a
general way, before any special objects
come into connection with &em ; but we
must, flrst of all, consider the general
disposition of the forces, because that is

VOL. n.

a superior and more comprehensive
measure, determining as respects camps,
cantonments, and marches.

If we look at the disposition of the
forces in a general way, that is, leaving
out of sight any special object, we can
only imagine it as a -unit, that is, as a
whole, intended to fight all together, for
any deviation from this simplest form
would imply a special object. Thus
arises, therefore, the conception of an
army, let it be small or large.

Further, when there is an absence of
any special end, there only remains as the
sole object the preservation of the army
itself, which of course includes its se-
curity. That the army shall be able
to exist without inconvenience, and that
it shall be able to concentrate without
difficulty for the purpose of fighting,
are, therefore, the two requisite con-
ditions. From these result, as desirable,
the following points more immediately
appljdngto subjects concerning the exist-
ence and security of the army.

1. Facility of subsistence.

2. Facility of providing shelter for the
troops.

3. Security of the rear.

4. An open country in front.

5. The position itself in a broken
country.

6. Strategic points d'appui.

7. A suitable distribution of the troops.
Our elucidation of these several points

is as follows :

The first two lead us to seek out culti-
vated districts, and great towns and roads.
They determine measures in general
rather than in particidar.

In the chapter on lines of communica-
tion will be found what we mean bv
security of the rear. The first and most
important point in this respect is that
the centre of the position should be at a
right angle with the principal line of
retreat adjoining the position.

Bespecting the fourth point, an army
certainly cannot look over an expanse of

IS

ON WAR,

[book t.

country in its front as it overlooks the
space directly before it when in a tactical
position for battle. But the strategic
eyes are the advanced guard, scouts and
patrols sent forward, spies, etc., etc., and
the service will naturally be easier for
these in an open than in an intersected
country. The fifth point is merely the
reverse of the fourth.

Strategical points d'appui differ from
tactical in these two respects, that the
army need not be in immediate contact
with them, and that, on the other hand,
they must be of greater extent. The cause
of tiiis is that, according to the nature of
the thing, the relations to time and space
in which strategy moves are generally on
a greater scale tiLan those of tactics. If,
therefore, an army posts itself at a dis-
tance of a mile from the sea coast or the
banks of a great river, it leans strate-
gically on these obstacles, for the enemy
cannot make use of such a space as this
to effect a strategic turning movement.
Within its narrow limits he cannot adven-
ture on marches miles in length, occupy-
ing days and weeks. On the other hand,
in strategy, a lake of several miles in
circumference is hardly to be looked upon
as an obstacle ; in its proceedings, a few
miles to the right or left are not of much
consequence. Fortresses will become
strategic points d'appui, according as
they are large, and afford a wide sphere
of action for offensive combinations.

The disposition of the army in separate
masses may' be done with a view either
to special objects and requirements, or to
those of a general nature ; here we can
only speak of the latter.

The first general necessity is to
push forward the advanced guard and
the other troops required to watch the
enemy.

The second is that, with very large
armies, the reserves are usually placed
several miles in rear, and consequently
occupy a separate position.

Lastly, the covering of both wings of

an army usuaUy requires a separate dis-
position of particular corps.

By this covering it is not at all meant
that a portion of the army is to be de-
tached to defend the space round its
wings, in order to prevent the enemy
from approaching these weak points, as
they are called : who would then defend
the wings of these flanking corps ? This
kind of idea, which is so common, is
complete nonsense. The wings of an
army are in themselves not wea^ points
of an army for this reason, that the enemy
also has wings, and cannot menace ours
without placing his own in jeopardy.
It is only if circumstances are unequid.,
if the enemy's army is ^ger than ours,
if his lines of communication are more
secure (see Lines of Oommunication), it is
only then that the wings become weak
parts ; but of these special cases we are
not now speaking, therefore, neither of
a case in which a flanking corps is ap-
pointed in connection with other combi-
nations to defend effectually the space
on our wings, for that no longer belongs
to the category of general dispositions.

But although the wings are not par-
ticularly weak parts still they are parti-
cularly important, because here, on
account of flanking movements the de-
fence is not so simple as in front, mea-
sures are more complicated and require
more time and preparation. For this
reason it is necessary in the majo-
rity of cases to protect the wings spe-
cify against unforeseen enterprises on
the part of the enemy, and this is done
by placing stronger masses on the wings
than would be required for mere pur*
poses of observation. To press heavily
these masses, even if they oppose no
very serious resistance, more time is re«>
quired, and the stronger they are the
more the enemy must develop his forces
and his intentions, and by that means
the object of the measure is attained ;
what is to be done further depends on
the particular plans of the moment.

GHAP. VI.]

GENERAL DISPOSITION OF AN ARMY.

19

We may therefore regard corps placed
on the wings as lateral advanced gaards,
intended to retard the advance of the
enemy through the space beyond our
wings and give us time to make disposi*
tions to counteract his movement.

If these corps are to fall back on the
main body and the latter is not to make
a backward movement at the same time,
then it follows of itself that they must
not be in the same line with the front of
the main body, but thrown out somewhat
forwards, because when a retreat is to
be made, even without being preceded by
a serious engagement, they should not
retreat directly on the side of the posi-
tion.

From these reasons of a subjective na-
ture, as they relate to the inner organisa-
tion of an army, there arises a natural
system of disposition , composed of four or
five parts according as the reserve remains
with the main body or not.

As the subsistence and shelter of the
troops partly decide the choice of a posi-
tion in general, so also they contribute
to a disposition in separate divisions.
The attention which they demand comes
into consideration along with the other
considerations above mentioned ; and we
seek to satisfy the one without prejudice
to the other. In most cases, by the divi-
sion of an army into five separate corps,
the difficulties of subsistence and quar-
tering will be overcome, and no great
alteration will afterwards be required on
their account.

We have still to cast a glance at the
distances at which these separated corps
may be allowed to be placed, if we are
to retain in view the advantage of mutual
support, and, therefore, of concentrating
for battle. On this subject we remind
our readers of what is said in the chap-
ters on the duration and decision of the
combat, according to which no absolute
distance, but only the most general, as
it were, average rules can be given,
because absolute and relative strength

of arms and country have a great in-
fiuence.

The distance of the advanced g^ard is
the easiest to fix, as in retreating it falls
back on the main body of the army, and,
therefore, may be at all events at a dis-
tance of a long day's march without in-
curring the risk of being obliged to fight
an independent battle. But it should
not be sent further in advance than the
security of the army requires, because
the further it has to fall back the more
it suffers.

Bespecting corps on the fianks, as we
have cdready said, the combat of an or-
dinary division of 8000 to 10,000 men
usually lasts for several hours, even
for half a day before it is decided;
on that account, therefore, there need be
no hesitation in placing such a division
at a distance of some leagues or one
or two miles, and for the same reason,
corps of three or four divisions may be
detached a day's march or a distance
of three or four miles.

From this natural and general disposi*
tion of the main body, in four or five
divisions at particular distances, a certain
method has arisen of dividing an army
in a mechanical manner whenever there
are no strong special reasons against
this ordinary method.

But although we assume that each of
these distinct parts of an army shall be
competent to undertake an independent
combat, and it may be obliged to Qngage
in one, it does not therefore by any means
follow that the real object of fractioning
an army is that the parts should fight
separately ; the necessity for this distri-
bution of the army is mostly only a con-
dition of existence imposed by time. If
the enemy approaches our position to
try the fate of a general action, the stra-
tegic period is over, everything concen-
trates itself into the one moment of the
battle, and therewith terminates and
vanishes the object of the distribution of
the army. As soon as the battle com-

20

ON WAR

[book v.

mences, considerations about quarters and
subsistence are suspended ; the observa-
tion of the enemy before our front and on
our flanks has fulfilled the purpose of
checking his advance by a partial resist-
ance, and now all resolves itself into the
one great unit — the great battle. The

best criterion of skill in the disposition of
an army lies in the proof that the distri-
bution has been considered merely as a
condition, as a necessaiy evil, but that
united action in battle has been considered
the object of the disposition.

CHAPTER VIL

ADVANCED GUARD AND OUT-POSTS.

These two bodies belong to that class of
subjects into which both the tactical and
strategic threads run simultaneously.
On the one hand we must reckon them
amongst those provisions which give form
to the battle and ensure the execution of
tactical plans ; on the other hand, they
frequency lead to independent combats,
and on account of their position, more or
less distant from the main body, they
are to be regarded as links in the strate-
gic chain, and it is this very feature
which obliges us to supplement the pre-
ceding chapter by devoting a few moments
to their consideration.

Every body of troops, when not com-
pletely in readiness for battle, requires
an advanced guard to learn the approach
of the enemy, and to gain further parti-
culars respecting his force before he
comes in sight, for the range of vision, as
a rule, does not go much beyond the
range of firearms. But what sort of man
would he be who could not see farther
than his arms can reach ! The foreposts
are the eyes of the army, as we have al-
ready said. The want of them, however, is
not cJways equally g^eat; it has its degrees.
The strength of armies and the extent
of groimd they cover, time, place, contin-

gencies, the method of making war, even •
chance, are all points which have an in-
fluence in the matter ; and, therefore, we
cannot wonder that military history, in-
stead of furnishing any definite and sim-
ple outlines of the method of using ad-
vanced guards and outposts, only presents
the subject in a kind of chaos of exam-
ples of the most diversified nature.

Sometimes we see the security of an
army intrusted to a corps regularly
appointed to the duty of advanced guard;
at another time a long line of separate
outposts ; sometimes both these arrange-
ments CO- exist, sometimes neither one
nor the other ; at one time there is only
one advanced guard in common for the
whole of the advancing columns ; at
another time, each colimin has its own
advanced guard. We shall endeavour to
get a clear idea of what the subject
really is, and then see whether we can
arrive at some principles capable of ap-
plication.

If the troops are on the march, a
detachment of more or less strength
forms its van or advanced g^ard, and in
case of the movement of the army being
reversed, this same detachment will form
the rearguard. If the troops are in

CHAP, vn.]

ADVANCED GUARD AND OUTPOSTS.

21

cantonments or camp, an extended line
of weak posts, forms the vanguard, the
autposU. It is essentially in the nature of
things, that, when the army is halted,
a greater extent of space can and must
be watched than when the army is in
motion, and therefore in the one case
the conception of a chain of posts, in
the other that of a concentrated corps
arises of itself.

The actual strength of an advanced
guard, as well as of outposts, ranges
from a considerable corps, composed of
an organisation of aU tliree arms, to a
regiment of hussars, and from a strongly
entrenched defensive line, occupied by
portions of troops from each arm of
the service, to mere ontljdng pickets,
and their supports detached from, the
camp. The services assigned to such
vanguards range also from those of mere
observation to an offer of opposition or
resistance to the enemy, and this oppo-
sition may not only be to give the
main body of the army the time which
it requires to prepare for battle, but
also to -make Uie enemy develop his
plans, and intentions, which consequently
makes the observation far more im-
portant.

According as more or less time is
required to be gained, according as the
opposition to be offered is calcidated
upon and intended to meet the special
measures of the enemy, so accordingly
must the strength of the advanced guard
and outposts be proportioned.

Frederick the Great, a general above
all others ever ready for battle, and
who almost directed his army in battle
by word of command, never required
strong outposts. We see him therefore
constantly encamping close under the
eyes of the enemy, without any great
apparatus of outposts, relying for his
security, at one place on a hussar re-
giment, at another on a light battalion,
or perhaps on the pickets, and supports
furnished from the camp. On the march,

a few thousand horse, generally furnished
by the cavalry on the flanks of the first
line, formed his advanced g^ard, and at
the end of the march rejoined the main
body. He very seldom had any corps
permanently employed as advanced
guard.

When it is the intention of a small army,
by using the whole weight of its mass
with great vigour and activity, to make
the enemy feel the effect of its superior
discipline and the greater resolution of
its commander, then almost every thing
must be done sous la harhe de Vennemi, in
the same way as Frederick the G-reat did
when opposed to Daun. A system of
holding back from the enemy, and a very
formal, and extensive system of outposts
would neutralise all the advantages of
the above kind of superiority. The cir-
cumstance that an error of another kind,
and the carrying out Frederick's system
too far, may lead to a battle of Hochkirch,
is no argument against this method of
acting; we should rather say, that as
there was only one battle of Hochkirch
in all the Silesian war, we ought to
recognise in this system a proof of the
King's consummate ability.

Napoleon, however, who commanded
an army not deficient in discipline and
firmness, and who did not want for re-
solution himself, never moved without a
strong advanced guard. There are two
reasons for this.

The first is to be found in the altera-
tion in tactics. A whole army is no longer
led into battle as one body by mere
word of command, to settle the affair like
a great duel by more or less skill and
bravery; the combatants on each side
now range their forces more to suit the
peculiarities of the ground and circum-
stances, so that the order of battle, and
consequently the battle itself, is a whole
made up of many parts, from which there
follows, that the simple determination to
fight becomes a regularly formed plan,
and the word of command a more or less

22

ON WAR.

[book v.

long preparatory arrangement. For this

time and data are required.

The second cause lies in the great size

of modem armies. Frederick brought

thirty or forty thousand men into battle ;

Napoleon from one to two hundred

thousand.

We have selected these examples be-
cause every one will admit, that two
such generals would never have adopted
any systematic mode of proceeding with-
out some good reason. Upon the whole,
there has been a gener^ improvement
in the use of advanced guards and out-
posts in modem wars ; not that every
one acted as Frederick, even in the
Silesian wars, for at that time the
Austrians had a system of strong out-
posts, and frequently sent forward a
corps as advanced guard, for which they
had sufficient reason from the situation
in which they were placed. Just in the
same way we find differences enough in
the mode of carrying on war in more
modem times. Even the French Mar-
shals Macdonald in Silesia, Oudinot
and Ney in the Mark (Brandenburg), ad-
vanced with armies of sixty or seventy
thousand men, without our reading of
their having had any advanced guard.—
We have hitherto been discussing ad-
vanced guards and outposts in relation
to their numerical strength ; but there is
another difference which we must settle.
It is that, when an army advances or
retires on a certain breadth of ground,
it may have a van and rear guard in
common for all the columns which are
marching side by side, or each column
may have one for itself. In order to form
a clear idea on this subject, we must look
at it in this way.

The fundamental conception of an
advanced guard, when a corps is so
specially designated, is that its mission
is the security of the main body or
centre of the army. If this main body
is marching upon several contiguous
roads so close together that they can

also easily serve for the advanced guard,
and therefore be covered by it, then the
flank columns naturally require no
special covering.

But those corps which are moving at
great distances, in reality as detached
corps,muBt provide their own van-guards.
The same applies also to any of those
corps which belong to the central mass,
and owing to the direction that the roads
may happen to take, are too far from the
centre column. Therefore there will be
as many advanced guards, as there are
columns virtually separated from each
other ; if each of these advanced gpiards
is much weaker than one general
one would be, then they fall more into
the class of other tactical dispositions,
and there is no advanced guwi in the
strategic tableau. But if the main body
or centre has a much larger corps for its
advanced guard, then that corps will
appear as the advanced guard of the
whole, and will be so in many respects.

But what can be the reason for giving
the centre a van-gpiard so much stronger
than the wings? The following three
reasons.

1. Because the mass of troops com-
posing the centre is usually much more
considerable.

2. Because plainly the central point
of a strip of country along which the
front of an army is extended must
always be the most important point, as
all ^'^ combinations of the campaign
relate mostly to it, and therefore the
field of battle is also usually nearer to it
than to the wings.

3. Because, although a corps thrown
forward in front of fiie centre does not
directly protect the wings as a real van-
guard, it still contributes g^atly to
their security indirectly. For instance,
the enemy cannot in ordinary cases pass
by such a corps within a certain distance
in order to effect any enterprise of im-
portance against one of the wings, be-
cause he has to fear an attack in flank

CHAP, vn.]

ADVANCED GUARD AND OUT^POSTS.

23

and rear. Even if this check whicli a
corps thrown forward in the centre
imposes on the enemy is not sufficient to
constitute complete security for the wings,
it is at all events sufficient to relieve the
flanks ^m all apprehension in a great
many cases.

The van-guard of the centre, if much
stronger than that of a wing, that is to
eay, il it consists of a special coips as
advanced guard, has then not merely
the mission of a van-guard intended to
protect the troops in its rear from sudden
surprise; it also operates in more general
strategic relations as an army corps
thrown forward in advance.

The following are the purposes for
which such a corps may be used, and
therefore those which determine its
duties in practice.

1. To insure a stouter resistance, and
make the enemy advance with more
caution ; consequently to do the duties
of a van-g^ard on a greater scale, when^
ever our arrangements are such as to
require time before they can be carried
into effect.

2. If the central mass of the army is
very large, to be able to keep this
unwieldy body at some distance from
the enemy, while we still remain close
to him with a more moveable body of
troops.

3. That we may have a corps of ob-
servation close to the enemy, if there are
any other reasons which require us to
keep the principal mass of the army at a
considerable distance.

The idea that weaker look-out posts,
mere partisan corps, might answer just
as well for this observation is set aside
at once if we reflect how easily a weak
corps might be dispersed, and how very
limited also are its means of observation
as compared with those of a consider-
able corps.

4. Inthepurstdt of the enemy. A single
corps as advanced g^ard, with the greater
part of the cavalry attached to it, can

move quicker, arriving later at its
bivouac, and moving earlier in the
morning than the whole mass.

5. Lastly, on a retreat, as rearguard,
to be used in defending the principal
natural obstacles of ground.* In this
respect also the centre is exceedingly
important. At first sight it certainly
appears as if such a rearguard would be
constantly in danger of having its flanks
turned. But we must remember that,
even if the enemy succeeds in overlapping
the flanks to some extent, he has still to
march the whole way from there to the
centre before he can seriously threaten
the central mass, which gives time to
the rearguard of the centre to prolong
its resistance, and remain in rear some-
what longer. On the other hand, the
situation becomes at once critical if the
centre falls back quicker than the wings ;
there is immediately an appearance as if
the line had been broken through, and
even the very idea or appearance of that
is to be dreaded. At no time is there a
greater necessity for concentration and
holding together, and at no time is this
more sensibly felt by every one than on a
retreat. The intention always is, that the
wings in case of extremity should clore
upon the centre ; and if, on account of sub-
sistence and roads, the retreat has to be
made on a considerable width (of country),
still the movement generally ends by a
concentration on the centre. If we add
to these considerations also this one, that
the enemy usually advances with his
principal force in the centre and with the
greatest energy against the centre, we
must perceive that the rear guard of the
centre is of special importance.

Accordingly, therefore, a special corps
should always be thrown forward as an
advanced guard in eveiy case where one
of the above relations occurs. These
relations almost fall to the ground if the
centre is not stronger than the wings,
as, for example, Macdonald when he
advanced against Bliicher, in Silesia, in

24

ON WAR.

[book v.

1813, and the latter, wlien he made his
moyement towards the Elbe. Both of
thorn had three corps, which usually
moved in three columns by different
roads, the heads of the columns in line.
On this account no mention is made of
their having had advanced guards.

But this disposition in three columns
of equal strength is one which is by no
means to be recommended, partly on that
account, and also because the division
of a whole army into three parts makes
it very unmanageable, as stated in the
fifth chapter of the third book.

When the whole is formed into a
centre with two wings separate from it,
which we have represented in the pre-
ceding chapter as the most natural
formation as long as there is no par-
ticular object for any other, the corps
forming the advanced guard, according
to the simplest notion of the case, will
have its place in front of the centre, and
therefore before the line which forms
the front of the wings ; but as the first
object of corps thrown out on the flanks
is to perform the same office for the sides
as the advanced guard for the front, it
wiU very often happen that these corps
will be in line with the advanced guard,
or even still further thrown forward,
according to circumstances.

With respect to the strength of an
advanced guard we have little to say, as
now very properly it is the general
custom to detail for that duty one or
more component parts of the army of
the first class, reinforced by part of the
cavalry : so that it consists of a corps, if
the army is formed in corps ; of a division,
if the organisation is in divisions.

It is easy to perceive that in this
respect also the great number of higher
members or divisions is an advantage.

How far the advanced guard should be
pushed to the front must entirely depend
on circumstances ; there are cases in which
it may be more than a day's march in
advance, and others in which it should

be immediately before the front of the
army. If we find that in most cases
between one and three miles is the
distance chosen, that shows certainly
that circumstances have usually pointed
out this distance as the best; but we
cannot make of it a rule by which we are
to be always guided.

In the foregoing observations we have
lost sight altogether of outposts, and
therefore we must now return to them
again.

In saying, at the commencement, that
the relations between outposts and
stationary troops is similar to that
between advanced guards and troops in
motion, our object was to refer the con-
ceptions back to their origin, and keep
them distinct in future ; but it is clear
that if we confine ourselves strictly to
the words we should get little more than
a pedantic distinction.

If an army on the march halts at night
to resume the march next morning, the
advanced guard must naturally do the
same, and always organise the outpost
duty, required both for its own security
and that of the main body, without on
that account being changed from an
advanced guard into a line of outposts.
To satisfy the notion of that transforma-
tion, the advanced guard would have to
be completely broken up into a chain of
small posts, having either only a very
small K>rce, or none at all in a form ap»
proaching to a mass. In other words, the
idea of a line of outposts must predomi-
nate over that of a concentrated corps.

The shorter the time of rest of the
army, the less complete does the covering
of the army require to be, for the enemy
has hardly time to learn from day to day
what is covered and what is not. The
longer the halt is to be the more com-
plete must be the observation and cover-
ing of all points of approach. As a rule,
therefore, when the halt is long, the van-
guard becomes always more and more
extended into a line of posts. Whether

OHAP. VIII.] MODE OF ACTION OF ADVANCED CORPS.

25

the change becomes complete, or whether
the idea of a concentrated corps shall
continue uppermost, depends chiefly on
two circumstances. The first is the
proximity of the contending armies, the
second is the nature of the country.

If the armies are very close in com-
parisoD to the width of their front, then
it will often be impossible to post a van-
guard between them, and the armies are
obliged to place their dependence on a
chain of outposts.

A concentrated corps, as it covers the
approaches to the army less directly,
generally requires more time and space
to act efficiently; and therefore, if the army
covers a great extent of front, as in canton-
in ants, and a corps standing in mass is to
cover all the avenues of approach, it is ne-
cessary that we should be at a considerable
distance from the enemy ; on this account
winter quarters, for instance, are gene-
rally covered by a cordon of posts.

The second circumstance is the nature
of the country ; where, for example, any
formidable obstacle of ground affords
the means of forming a strong Une of
posts with but few troops, we should not
neglect to take advantage of it.

Lastly, in winter quarters, the rigour
of the season may also be a reason for
breaking up the advanced guard into a
line of posts, because it is easier to find
shelter for it in that way.

The use of a reinforced line of out-
posts was brought to great perfection by
the Anglo-Dutch anny, during the cam-
paign of 1794 and 1795, in the Nether-
lands, when the line of defence was
formed by brigades composed of all
arms, in single posts, and supported by
a reserve. Scharnhorst, who was with
that army, introduced this system into
the Prussian army on the Passarge in
1 807 . Elsewhere in moderti times, it has
been little adopted, chiefly because the wars
have been too rich in movement. But even
when there has been occasion for its use
it has been neglected, as for instance, by
Murat, at Tarutino. A wider extension of
his defensive line would have spared
him the loss of thirty pieces of artillery
in a combat of out-posts.

It cannot be disputed that in certain
circumstances, great advantages may be
derived from this system. We propose
to return to the subject on another
occasion.

CHAPTER VIII.

MODE OF ACTION OF ADVANCED CORPS.

Ws have just seen how the security of
the army is expected, from the effect
which an advanced guard and flank corps
produce on an advancing enemy. Such
corps are always to be considered as very
weak whenever we imagine them in
conflict with the main body of the enemy,

and therefore a peculiar mode of using
them is required, that they may fulfll the
purpose for which they are intended,
without incurring the risk of the serious
loss which is to be feared from this dis"
proportion in strength..

The object of a corps of this descrip«

26

ON WAP.

[book r.

tion, is to observe the enemy, and to
delay his progress.

For the first of these purposes a smaller
body would never be sufficient, partly be-
cause it would be more easily driven back,
partly because its means of observation —
that is its eyes— could not reach as far.

But the observation must be carried to
a high point ; the enemy must be made to
develop his whole strength before such
a coi*ps, and thereby reveal to a certain ex-
tent, not only his force, but also his plans.

For this its mere presence would be
sufficient, and it would only be necessary
to wait and see the measures by which
the enemy seeks to drive it back, and
then commence its retreat at once.

But further, it must also delay the ad-
vance of the enemy, and that implies
actual resistance.

Now how can we conceive this waiting
until the last moment, as well as this
resistance, without such a corps being in
constant danger of serious loss ? Chiefly
in this way, that the enemy himself is
preceded by an advanced guard, and
therefore does not advance at once with
all the outflanking and overpowering
weight of his whole force. Now, if this
advance guard is also horn, the commence-
ment superior to our advanced corps, as
we may naturally suppose it is intended
it should be, and if the enemy's main
body is also nearer to his advanced guard
than we are to ours, and if that main body,
being already on the march, will soon be
on the spot to support the attack of his
advanced guard with all his strength, still
this first act, in which our advanced
corps has to contend with the enemy's
advanced guard, that is with a force not
much exceeding its own^ ensures at once
a certain gain of time, and thus allows of
our watching the adversary's movements
for some time without endangering our
own retreat.

But even a certain amount of resistance
which such a corps can ofler in a suitable
position is not attended with such dis-

advantage as we might anticipate in
other cases through the disproportion in
the strength of the forces engaged. The
chief danger in a contest with a superior
enemy consists always in the possibility
of being turned and placed in a critical
situation by the enemy enveloping our
position ; but in the case to which our
attention is now directed, a risk of this
description is very much less, owing to the
advancing enemy never knowing exactly
how near there may be support from
the main body of his opponent's army
itself, which may place his advanced
column between two fires. The conse-
quence is, that the enemy in advancing
keeps the heads of his single columns as
nearly as possible in line, and only begins
very cautiously to attempt to turn one or
other wing after he has sufficiently re-
connoitred our position. While the ene*
my is thus feeling about and moving
guardedly, the corps we have thrown for-
ward has time to fall back before it is in
any serious danger.

As for the length of the resistance which
such a corps should offer against the attack
in front, or against the commencement
of any turning movement, that depends
chiefly on the nature of the ground and
the proximity of the enemy's supports.
If this resistance is continued beyond its
natural measure, either from want of judg-
ment or from a sacrifice being necessary
in order to g^ve the main body the time
it requires, the consequence must always
be a very considerable loss.

It is only in rare instances, and more
especially when some local obstacle is fa-
vourable, that the resistance actually
made in such a combat can be of import-
ance, and the duration of the little battle
of such a corps would in itself be hardly
sufficient to gain the time required ; that
time is reidly gained in a threefold
manner, which lies in the nature of the
thing, viz. :

1. By the more cautious, and conse*
quently slower advance of the enemy.

CHAP, vin.] MODE OF A CTION OF AD VANCED CORPS.

27

2. By the duration of the actual
resistance offered.

3. By the retreat itself.

This retreat must be made as slowly
as is consistent with safety. If the country
affords good positions they should be
made use of, as that obliges the enemy
to organise fresh attacks and plans for
turning moyements, and by that means
more time is gained. Perhaps in a new
position a real combat even may again
be fought.

We see that the opposition to the
enemy's progress by actual fighting and
the retreat are completely combined with
one another, and that the shortness of
the duration of the fights must be made
up for by their frequent repetition.

This is the kind of resistance which
an advanced corps should offer. The
degree of effect depends chiefly on the
strength of the corps, and the configu-
ration of the country ; next on the
length of the road which the corps
has to march over, and the support
which it receives.

A small body, even when the forces on
both sides are equal can never make as
long a stand as a considerable corps ;
for the larger the masses the more time
they require to complete their action,
of whatever kind it may be. In a
mountainous country the mere marching
is of itself slower, the resistance in the
different positions longer, and attended
with less danger, and at every step fa-
vourable positions may be foimd.

As the distance to which a corps is
pushed forward increases so will the
length of its retreat, and therefore also
the absolute gain of time by its resistance ;
but as such a corps by its position has
less power of resistance in itself, and
is less easily reinforced, its retreat must
be made more rapidly in proportion
than if it stood nearer the main body,
and had a shorter distance to traverse.

The support and means of rallying
afforded to an advanced corps must na-

turally have an influence on the duration
of the resistajice, as all the time that
prudence requires for the security of the
retreat is so much taken from the resist*
ance, and therefore diminishes its amount.

There is a marked difference in the time
gained by the resistance of an advanced
corps when the enemy makes his first
appearance after midday ; in such a case
the length of the night is so much addi-
tional time gained, as the advance is
seldom continued throughout the night.
Thus it was that, in 1815, on the short
distance from Charleroi to Idgny, not
more than two miles,* the first Prus-
sian corps under General Ziethen, about
30,000 strong, against Buonaparte at
the head of 120,000 men, was enabled to
gain twenty-four hours for the Prussian
army then engaged in concentrating.
The first attack was made on General
Ziethen about nine o'clock on the
morning of 15th June, and the battle of
Ligny did not commence until about
two on the afternoon of 16th. General Zie-
then suffered, it is true, very considerable
loss, amounting to five or six thousand
men killed, wounded or prisoners.

If we refer to experience the following
are the results, which may serve as a
basis in any calculations of this kind.

A division of ten or twelve thousand
men, with a proportion of cavalry, a day's
march of three or four miles in advance
in an ordinary country, not particularly
strong, will be able to detain the enemy
(including time occupied in the retreat)
about half as long again as he would
otherwise require to march over the same
ground, but if the division is only a mile
in advance, then the enemy ought to be de-
tained about twice or three times as long
as he otherwise would be on the march.

Therefore supposing the distance to
be a march of four miles, for which
usually ten hours are required, then

* Here, as well as elsewhere, by the word mile,
the German mile is meant.— Tb.

38

ON WAR,

[book v.

from the moment that the enemy appears
in force in front of the advanced corps,
we may reckon upon fifteen hours before
he is in a condition to attack our main
body. On the other hand, if the ad-
vanced guard is posted only a mile in
advance, then the time which will elapse
before our army can be attacked will be
more than three or four hours, and may
very easily come up to double that, for
the enemy still requires j^ust as much time
to mature his first measures against our
advanced guard, and the resistance offered
by that guard in its original position will
be greater than it would be in a position
further forward.

The consequence is, that in the first of
these supposed cases the enemy cannot
easily make an atta:jk on our main body
on the same day that he presses back
the advanced corps, and this exactly
coincides with the results of experience.
Even in the second case the enemy must
succeed in driving our advanced guard
from its ground in the first half of the
day to have the requisite time for a
general action.

As the night comes to our help in the
first of these supposed cases, we see how
much time may be gained by an advanced
guard thrown further forward.

With reference to corps placed on the
sides or flanks, the object of which we
have before explained, the mode of action
is in most cases more or less connected
with circumstances which belong to the

province of immediate application. The
simplest way is to look upon them as
advanced guards placed on the sides,
which being at the same time thrown
out somewhat in advance, retreat in an
oblique direction upon the army.

As these corps are not immediately
in the front of the army, and cannot
be so easily supported as a reg^ar
advanced guard, they would, therefore,
be exposed to greater danger if it was
not that the enemy's offensive power in
most cases is somewhat less at the outer
extremities of his line, and in the worst
cases such corps have sufficient room to
give way without exposing the army so
directly to danger as a flying advanced
guard would in its rapid retreat.

The most usual and best means of
supporting an advanced corps is by a
considerable body of cavalry, for which
reason, when necessary from the distance
at which the corps is advanced, the reserve
cavalry is posted between the main body
and the advanced corps.

The conclusion to be drawn from the
preceding reflections is, that an advanced
corps effects more by its presence than
by its efforts, less by the combats in
which it engages than by the possibility
of those in which it might engage : that
it should never attempt to stop the
enemy's movements, but only serve like
a pendulum to moderate and regulate
them, so that they may be made matter
of calculation.

CHAPTER IX.

CAMPS.

Wb are now considering the three situa- are conditioned by place, time, and the
tions of an army outside of the combat number of the effective force. All those
only strategically, that is, so far as they subjects which relate to the internal

CHAP. IX.]

CAMPS.

29

arrangement of the combat and the
transition into the state of combat belong
to tactics.

The disposition in camps, under which
we mean every disposition of an army
except in quarters, whether it be in
tents, huts, or bivouac, is strategically
completely identical with the combat which
is contingent upon such disposition.
Tactically, it is not so always, for we can,
for many reasons, choose a site for en-
camping which is not precisely identical
with the proposed field of battle. Having
already said all that is necessary on the
disposition of an army, that is, on the
position of the different parts, we have
only to make some observations on camps
in connection with their history.

In former times, that is, before armies
grew once more to considerable dimen-
sions, before wars became of greater
duration, and their partial acts brought
into connection with a whole or general
plan, and up to the time of the war of
the French Eevolution, armies always
used tents. This was their normal state.
With the commencement of the mild
season of the year they left their quarters,
and did not again take them up until
winter set in. Winter quarters at that
time must to a certain extent be looked
upon as a state of no war, for in them the
forces were neutralised, the whole clock-
work stopped, quarters to refresh an
army which preceded the real winter
quarters, and other temporary canton-
ments, for a short time within contracted
limits were transitional and exceptional
conditions.

This is not the place to enquire how
such a periodical voluntary neutralisation
of power consisted with, or is now con-
sistent with the object and being of war ;
we shall come to that subject hereafter.
Enough that it was so.

Hince the wars of the French Eevolu-
tion, armies have completely done away
with the tents on account of the encum-
brance they cause. Partly it is found

better for an army of 100,000 men to
have, in place of 6,000 tent horses,
6,000 additional cavalry, or a couple of
hundred extra guns, partly it has been
found that in great and rapid operations
a load of tents is a hindrance, and of
little use.

But this change is attended with two
drawbacks, viz., an increase of casualties
in the force, and greater wasting of the
country.

However slight the protection afforded
by a roof of common tent cloth, — it cannot
be denied that on a long continuance it is
great relief to the troops. For a single
day the difference is small, because a
tent is little protection against wind and
cold, and does not completely exclude
wet \ but this small difference, if repeated
two or three hundred times in a year,
becomes important. A greater loss
through sickness is just a natural result.

How the devastation of the country is
increased through the want of tents for
the troops requires no explanation.

One would suppose that on account
of these two reactionary influences the
doing away with tents must have
diminished again the energy of war in
another way, that troops must remain
longer in quarters, and from want of the
requisites for encampment must forego
many positions which would have been
possible had tents been forthcoming.

This would indeed have been the case
had there not been, in the same epoch of
time, an enormous revolution in war
generally, which swallowed up in itself
all these smaller subordinate influences.

The elementary Are of war has become
so overpowering, its energy so extra-
ordinary, that these regular periods of
rest also have disappeared, and every
power presses forward with persistent
force towards the great decision, which
will be treated of more fully in the ninth
book. Under these circumstances, there-
fore, any question about effeotson an army
from the discontinuance of the use of

30

ON JTAR.

[book ▼.

tents in the field is quite tlirown into
the shade. Troops now occupy hiits, or
biyouac under ihe canopy of heaven,
without regard to season of the year,
weather, or locality, just according as
the general plan and object of the cam-
paign require.

Whether war will in the future con-
tinue to maintain, under all circumstances
and at all times, this energy, is a ques-
tion we shall consider hereafter ; where
this energy is wanting, the want of tents
is calculated to exercise some influence

on the conduct of war; but that this
reaction will ever be strong enough to
bring back the use of tents is very
doubtful, because now that much wider
limits have been opened for the elements
of war it will never return within its old
narrow bounds, except occasionally for a
certain time and under certain circum-
stances, only to break out again with the
all-powerful force of its nature. Perma-
nent arrangements for an army must,
therefore, be based only upon that
nature.

CHAPTER X.

MARCHES.

Marches are a mere passage from one
position to another under two primary
conditions.

The first is, the due care of the troops,
so that no forces shall be squandered
uselessly when they might be usefully
employed; the second, is precision in
the movements, so that they may fit
exactly. If we marched 100,000 men
in one single column, that is, upon
one road without intervals of time, the
rear of the column would never arrive at
the proposed destination on the same
day with the head of the column ; we
must either advance at an imusually slow
pace, or the mass would, like a thread of
water, disperse itself in drops ; and this
dispersion, together with the excessive
exertion laid upon those in rear owing
to the length of the column, would
soon throw everything into confusion.

If from this extreme we take the
opposite direction, we find that the
smaller the mass of troops in one column
the greater the ease and precision with
which the march can be performed. The

result of this is the need of a division
quite irrespective of that division of an
army in separate parts which belongs
to its position ; therefore, although the
division into columns of march ori-
ginates in the strategic disposition in
general, it does not do so in every par-
ticular case. A gpreat mass which is to
be concentrated at any one point must
necessarily be divided for the march.
But even if a disposition of the army in
separate parts causes a march in separate
divisions, sometimes the conditions of the
primitive disposition, sometimes those of
the march, are paramount. For instance,
if the disposition of the troops is one
made merely for rest, one in which a
battle is not expected, then the conditions
of the march predominate, and these
conditions are chiefly the choice of g^ood,
well-frequented roads. Keeping in view
this diflerence, we choose a road in the
one case on account of the quarters
and camping g^und, in the other we
take the quarters and camps such as they
are, on account of the road. When a

OHAP. X.]

MARCnES.

31

battle is expected, and everytliing depends
on our reacliing a particular point with a
mass of troops, then we should think
nothing of getting to that point by even
the worst by-roads, if necessary ; if, on the
other hand, we are still on the journey to
the theatre of war, then the nearest g^eat
roads are selected for the columns, and
we look out for the best quarters and
camps that can be got near them.

Whether the march is of the one kind
or the other, if there is a possibility of a
combat, that is within the whole region
of actual war, it is an invariable rule in
the modem art of war to organise the
columns so that the mass of troops com-
posing each column is fit of itself to en-
gage in an independent combat. This
condition is satisfied by the combina-
lion of the three arms, by an organised*
subdivision of the whole, and by the
appointment of a competent commander.
Marches, therefore, have been the chief
cause of the new order of battle, and they
profit most by it.

When in the middle of the last century,
especially in the theatre of war in which
Frederick II. was eiigaged, generals
began to look upon movement as a
principle belong^ug to fighting, and to
think of gaining the victory by the effect
of unexpected movements, the want of
an organised order of battle caused the
most complicated and laborious evolu-
tions on a march. In carrying out a
movement near the enemy, an army
ought to be always ready to fight ; but
at that time they were never ready to
fight unless the whole army was collec-
tively present, because nothing less than
the army constituted a complete whole.
In a march to a flank, the second line,
in order to be always at the regulated
distance, that is about a quarter of a mile
from the first, had to march up hill and
down dale, which demanded immense ex-
ertion, as well as a great stock of local
knowledge ; for where can one find two
good roads running parallel at a distance

of a quarter of a mile from each other ?
The cavalry on the wings had to en-
counter the same difficulties when the
march was direct to the front. There
was other difficulty with the artillery,
which required a road for itself, pro-
tected by infantry ; for the lines of
infantry required to be continuous
lines, and the artillery increased the
length of their already long trailing
columns still more, and threw all their
regulated distances into disorder. It is
only necessary to read the dispositions
for marches in Tempelhof 's History of the
Seven Years' War, to be satisfied of all
these incidents and of the restraints thus
imposed on the action of war.

But since then the modem art of war
has subdivided armies on a reg^ar
principle, so that each of the principal
pcirts forms in itself a complete whole, of
small proportions, but capable of acting
in battle precisely like the g^eat whole,
except in one respect, which is, that the
duration of its action must be shorter.
The consequence of this change is, that
even when it is intended that the whole
force should take part in a battle, it
is no longer necessary to have the
columns so close to each other that they
may unite before the commencement of
the combat ; it is sufficient now if the
concentration takes place in the course of
the action.

The smaller a body of troops the more
easily it can be moved, and therefore the
less it requires that subdivision which is
not a result of the separate disposition,
but of the unwieldiness of the mass.
A small body, therefore, can march upon
one road, and if it is to advance on
several lines it easily finds roads near
each other which are as good as it
requires. The greater the mass the
greater becomes the necessity for sub-
dividing, the greater becomes the number
of columns, and the want of mado roads,
or even g^eat high roads, consequently
also the distance of the columns from

32

Oir TFAR.

[book v.

each other. Now the danger of this suh-
dmsion is — arithmetically expressed —
in an inverse ratio to the necessity for it.
The smaller the parts are, the more
readily must they be able to render
assistance to each other ; the larger they
are, the longer they can be left to depend
on themselves. If we only call to mind
what has been said in the preceding book
on this subject, and also consider that in
cultivated countries at a few miles
distance from the main road there are
always other tolerably good roads run-
ning in a parallel direction, it is easy to
see that, in regulating a march, there are
no great difficulties which make rapidity
and precision in the advance incompatible
with the proper concentration offeree. —
In a mountainous country parallel roads
are both scarce, and the difficulties of
communication between them great ; but
the defensive powers of a single column
are very much greater.

In order to make this idea clearer let
us look at it for a moment in a concrete
form.

Adivisionof 8,000men,with its artillery
and other carriages, takes up, as we know
by experience in ordinary cases, a space of
one league; if, therefore, two divisions
march one after the other on the same road,
the second arrives one hour after the first ;
but now, as said in the sixth chapter of
the fourth book, a division of this strength
is quite capable of maintaining a combat
for several hours, even against a superior
force, and, therefore, supposing the
worst, that is, supposing the first had to
commence a fight instantaneously, still
the second division would not arrive too
late. Further, within a league right and
left of the road on which we march, in
the cultivated countries of central Europe
there are, generally, lateral roads which
can be used for a march, so that there is
no necessity to go across country, as was
so often done in the Seven Years' War.

Again, it is known by experience
that the head of a column composed of

four divisions and a reserve of cavalry,
even on indifferent roads, generally gets
over a march of three miles in eight
hours; now, if we reckon for each
division one league in depth, and the
same for the reserve cavalry and artillery,
then the whole march will last thirteen
hours. This is no great length of time,
and yet in this case forty thousand men
would have marched over the same road.
But with such a mass as this we can
make use of lateral roads, which are to be
found at a greater distance, and there-
fore easily shorten the march. If the
mass of troops marching on the same
road is still greater than above supposed,
then it is a case in which the arrival of
the whole on the same day is no longer
indispensable, for such masses never give
battle now the moment they meet, usually
not until the next day.

"We have introduced these concrete
cases, not as exhausting considerations of
this kind, but to « make ourselves more
intelligible, and by means of this glance
at the results of experience to show that
in the present mode of conducting war
the organisation of marches no longer
offers such great difficulties; that the
most rapid marches, executed with the
greatest precision, no longer require
either that peculiar skill or that exact
knowledge of the country which was
needed for Frederick's rapid and exact
marches in the Seven Years' War.
Through the existing organisation of
armies, they rather go on now almost of
themselves, at least without any great pre-
paratory plans. In times past, battles were
conducted by mere word of command,
but marches required a regular plan,
now the order of battle requires the lat-
ter, and for a march the word of com-
mand almost suffices.

As is well known, all marches are either
perpendicular [to the front] or parallel.
The latter, also called flank marches, alter
the geometrical position of the divisions ;
those parts which, in position, were in

CHAP. X.J

MARCHES.

33

line, will follow one another, and viee
wrta. Now, although the line of march
may he at any angle with the front,
still the order of the march must de-
cidedly be of one or other of these
classes.

This geometrical alteration could only
be completely carried out by tactics, and
by it only through the file-march as
it is called, which, with great masses, is
impossible. Far less is it possible for stra-
tegy to do it. The parts which changed
their geometrical relation in the old
order of battle were only the centre and
wings ; in the new they are the divisions
of the first rank — corps, divisions, or
even brigades, according to the organisa-
tion of the army. Now, the consequences
above deduced from the new order of
battle have an influence here also, for as it
is no longer so necessary, as formerly,
that the whole army shoidd be assembled
before action commences, therefore the
greater care is taken that those troops
which march together form one whole
(a unit). If two divisions were so placed
that one formed the reserve to the other,
and that they were to advance against
the enemy upon two roads, no one would
think of sending a portion of each divi-
sion by each of the roads, but a road
wotdd at once be assigned to each divi-
sion ; they would therefore march side by
side, and each general of division would
be left to provide a reserve for himself in
case of a combat. Unity of command is
much more important than the original
geometrical relation ; if the divisions
reach their new position without a com-
bat, they can resume their previous re-
lations. Much less if two divisions,
standing together, are to make a parallel
(flank) march upon two roads should we
think of placing the second line or re-
serve of each division on the rear road ;
instead of that, we should allot to each
of the divisions one of the roads, and
therefore during the march consider one
division as forming the reserve to the

VOL. II.

other. If an army in four divisions, of
which three form the front line and the
fourth the reserve, is to march against
the enemy in that order, then it is natural
to assign a road to each of the divisions
in front, and cause the reserve to follow
the centre. If there are not three roads
at a suitable distance apart, then we need
not hesitate at once to march upon two
roads, as no serious inconvenience can
arise from so doing.

It is the same in the opposite case, the
flank march.

Another point is the march ofiP of
columns from the right flank or left.
In parallel marches (marches to a flank)
the thing is plain in itself. No one
would march off from the right to
make a movement to the left flank. In
a march to the front or rear, the order of
march should properly be chosen accord-
ing to the direction of the lines of roads
in respect to the future line of deploy-
ment. This may also be done frequently
in tactics, as its spaces are smaller, and
therefore a survey of the geometrical
relations can be more easily taken.
In strategy it is quite impossible, and
therefore although we have seen here and
there a certain analogy brought over
into strategy from tactics, it was mere
pedantry. Formerly the whole order
of march was a purely t€U)tical aflair,
because the army on a march re-
mained always an indivisible whole,
and looked to nothing but a combat
of the whole ; yet nevertheless Schwerin,
for example, when he marched off from
his position near Brandeis, on the 5th of
May, could not tell whether his future
field of battle would be on his right or
left, and on this account he was obliged
to make his famous countermarch.

If an army in the old order of battle
advanced against the enemy in four
columns, the cavalry in the first and
second lines on each wing formed the
two exterior columns, the two lines of
infantry composing the wings formed the

84

ON WAR.

[book y.

two central columns. Now these columns
could march off all from the right or all
from the left, or the right wing from the
right, the left wing from the left, or the
left from the right, and the right from the
left. In the latter case it would have
been called ** double column from the
centre." But all these forms, although
they ought to have had a relation directly
to the future deployment, were really all
quite indifferent in that respect. When
Frederick the Great entered on the battle
of Leuthen, his army had been marched
off by wings from the right in four
columns, therefore the wonderful transi-
tion to a march off in order of battle, as
described by all writers of history, was
done with the greatest ease, because it
happened that the king chose to attack
the left wing of the Austrians ; had he
wanted to turn their right, he must have
countermarched his army, as he did at
Prague.

If these forms did not meet that ob-
ject in those days, they would be mere
trifling as regards it now. We know
now just as little as formerly the situa-
tion of the future battle-field in refer-
ence to the road we take ; and the little
loss of time occasioned by marching off
in inverted order is now infinitely less im-
portant than formerly. The new order of
battle has frirther a beneficial influence in
this respect, that it is now immaterial
which division arrives first or which
brigade is brought under fire first.

Under these circumstances the march
off from the right or left is of no conse-
quence now, otherwise than that when it
is done alternately it tends to equalise the
fatigue which the troops undergo. This,
which is the only object, is certainly an
important one for retaining both modes
of marching off with large bodies.

The advance from the centre as a de-
finite evolution naturally comes to an end
on account of what has just been stated,

and can only take place accidentally. An
advance frora the centre by one and the
same column in strategy is, in point of
fact, nonsense, for it supposes a double
road.

The order of march belongs, more-
over, more to the province of tac-
tics than to that of strategy, for it
is the division of a whole into parts,
which, after the march, are once more
to resume the state of a whole. As,
however, in modern warfare the formal
connection of the parts is not required to
be constcmtly kept up during a march,
but on the contrary, the parts during the
march may become farther separated,
and therefore be left more to their own re-
sources, therefore it is much easier now for
independent combats to happen in which
the parts have to sustain themselves, and
which, therefore must be reckoned as
complete combats in themselves, and on
that account we have thought it neces-
sary to say so much on the subject.

Further, an order of battle in three
parts in juxtaposition being, as we have
seen in the second* chapter of this book,
the most natural where no special object
predominates, from, that results also that
the order of march in three columns is
the most natural

It only remains to observe that the
notion of a column in strategy does not
found itself mainly on the line of march
of one body of troops. The term is used
in strategy to designate masses of troops
marching on the same road on different
days as well. For the division into
columns is made chiefly to shorten and
facilitate the march, as a smcJl number
marches quicker and more conveniently
than large bodies. But this end may,
be attained by marching troops on
different days,, as well as by marching
them on different roads.

* 6Ui Chap. P--TB.

CHAP. XI.]

MARCHES.

35

CHAPTER XI.

MARCHES (Continued).

Besfectinq the length of a march and
the time it requires, it is natural for us
to depend on the general restdte of ex-
{>erience.

For our modem armies it has long
been settled that a march of three miles
should be the usual day's work which,
on long distances, may be set down as
an average distance of two miles per day,
allowing for the necessary rest days, to
make such repairs of all kinds as may
be required.

Such a march in a level country, and
on tolerable roads will occupy a division
of 8,000 men from eight to ten hours; in
a hilly country from ten to twelve hours.
If several divisions are united in one
column, the march will occupy a couple
of hours longer, without taking into ac-
count the intervals which must elapse
between the departure of the first and
succeeding divisions.

We see, therefore, that the day is pretty
well occupied with such a march ; that the
fatigue endured by a soldier loaded with
his pack for ten or twelve hours is not to
be judged of by that of an ordinary
journey of three miles on foot which a
person, on tolerable roads, might easily
get over in five hours.

The longest marches to be found in ex-
ceptional instances are of five, or at most
six miles a day ; for a continuance four.

A march of five miles requires a halt
for several hours ; and a division of 8,000
men will not do*it, even on a good road,
in less than sixteen hours. If the march
is one of six miles, and that there are
several divisions in the column, we may
reckon upon at least twenty hours.

We here mean the march of a number

of whole divisions at once, from one camp
to another, for that is the usual form of
marches made on a theati'e of war. When
several divisions are to march in one
column, the first division to move is as-
sembled and marched off earlier than
the rest, and therefore arrives at its
camping ground so much the sooner.
At the same time this difference can still
never amount to the whole time, which
corresponds to the depth of a division on
the line of march, and which is so weU ex-
pressed in French, as the time it requires
for its decoulement (nmning down). The
soldier is, therefore, saved very little
fatigue in this way, and every march is
very much lengthened in duration in pro-
portion as the number of troops to be
moved increases. To assemble and march
off the different brigades of a division,
in like manner at different times, is seldom
practicable, and for that reason we have
taken the division itself as the unit.

In long distances, when troops march
from one cantonment into another, and
go over the road in small bodies, and
without points of assembly, the distance
they go over daily may certainly be in-
creased, and in point of fact it is so, from
the necessary detours in getting to quar-
ters.

But those marches, on which troops
have to assemble daily in divisions, or
perhaps in corps, and have an additional
move to get into quarters, take up the
most time, and are only advisable in rich
countries, and where the masses of troops
are not too large, as in such cases the
greater facilility of subsistence and the
advantage of the shelter which the troops
obtain compensate sufficiently for the

36

OX WAR.

[book ▼.

fatig;ue of a longer march. The Prussian
army undoubtedly pursued a wrong sys-
tem in their retreat in 1806 in taking up
quarters for the troops every night on
account of subsistence. They could have
procured subsistence in bivouacs, and the
army would not have been obliged to
spend fourteen days in getting over fifty
miles of ground, which, after all, they
only accomplished by extreme efforts.

If a bad road or a hilly country
has to be marched over, all these
calculations as to time and distance
undergo such modifications that it is
difficult to estimate, with any certainty,
in any particular case, the time required
for a march ; much less, thon^ can any
general theory be established. All that
theory can do is to direct attention to the
liability to error with which we are here
beset. To avoid it the most careful cal-
culation is necessary, and a large margin
for unforeseen delays. The influence of
weather and condition of the troops also
come into consideration.

Since the doing away with tents and
the introductioQ of the system of subsist-
ing troops by compulsory demands for
provisions on the spot, the baggage of an
army has been very sensibly diminished,
and as a natural and most important
consequence we look first for an accelera-
tion in the movements of an army, and,
therefore, of course, an increase in the
length of the day's march. This, how-
ever, is only realised under certain
circumstances.

Marches within the theatre of war
have been very little accelerated by this
means, for it is well known that for
many years whenever the object required
marches of unusual length it has always
been the practice to leave the baggage
behind or send it on beforehand, and,
generally, to keep it separate from the
troops during the continuance of such
movements, and it had in general no
influence on the movement, because as
soon as it was out of the way, and ceased

to be a direct impediment, no further
trouble was taken about it, whatever
damage it might suffer in that way.
Marches, therefore, took place in the
Seven Years' War, which even now
cannot be surpassed ; as an instance we
cite Lascy's march in 1760, when he had
to support the diversion of the Russians
on Berlin, on that occasion he got over
the road from Schweidnitz to Berlin
through Lusatia, a distance of forty-five
miles, in ten days, averaging, therefore,
4^ miles a day, which, for a corps of
15,000, would be an extraordinary march
even in these days.

On the other hand, through the new
method of supplying troops the move-
ments of armies have acquired a new
retarding principle. If troops have partly
to procure supplies for themselves, which
often happens, then they require more
time for the service of supply than would
be necessary merely to receive rations
from provision wagons. Besides this,
on marches of considerable duration
troops cannot be encamped in such large
numbers at any one point ; the divisions
must be separated from one another, in
order the more easily to manage for
them. Lastly, it almost always happens
that it is necessary to place part of
the army, particularly the cavalry, in.
quarters. All this occasions on the whole
a sensible delay. We find, therefore,
that Buonaparte in pursuit of the
Prussians in 1806, with a view to cut
off their retreat, and Bliicher in 1815, in
pursuit of the French, with a like object,
only accomplished thirty miles in ten
days, a rate which Frederick the Great
was able to attain in his marches from
Saxony to Silesia and back, notwith-
standing all the train that he had to
carry with him.

At the same time the mobility and
handiness, if we may use such an
expression, of the parts of an army, botli
great and small, on the theatre of war
have very perceptibly gained by the

csAF. zn.]

MARCHES.

87

diminution of baggage. Partly, inasmuch
as while the number of cavalrj and guns
is the same, there are fewer horses, and
therefore, there is less forage required ;
partly, inasmuch as we are no longer so
much tied to any one position, because
we have not to be for ever looking
after a long train of baggage dragging
after us.

Marches such as that, which, after
raising the siege of Olmiitz, 1758,
Frederick the Great made with 4,000
carriages, the escort of which employed
half his army broken up into single bat-

talions and companies, could not be
effected now in presence of even the most
timid adversary.

On long marches, as from the Tagus
to the Niemen, that lightening of the
army is more sensibly felt, for although
the usual measure of the day's march
remains the same on account of the car-
riages still remaining, yet, in cases of
great urgency, we can exceed that usual
measure at a less sacrifice.

Generally the diminution of baggage
tends more to a saving of power than to
the acceleration of movement.

CHAPTER XII.

MARCHES (Contixited).

Ws have now to consider the destructive
influence which marches have upon an
army. It is so great that it may be re-
garded as an active principle of destruc-
tion, just as much as the combat.

One single moderate march does not
wear down the instrument, but a succes-
sion of even moderate marches is certain
to tell upon it, and a succession of severe
ones will, of course, do so much sooner.

At the actual scene of war, want of
food and shelter, bad broken-up roads,
and the nec^assity of being in a perpetual
state of readiness for battle, are causes
of an excessive strain upon our means,
by which men, cattle, carriages of every
description as well as clothing are ruined.

It is commonly said that a long rest
does not suit the physical health of an
army ; that at such a time there is more
sickness than during moderate activity.
No doubt sickness will and does occur
if soldiers are packed too close in confined
quarters; but the same thing would

occur if these were quarters taken up on
the march, and the want of air and exer-
cise can never be the cause of such sick-
nesses, as it is so easy to give the soldier
both by means of his exercises.

Only think for a moment, when the
organism of a human being is in a
disordered and fainting state, what a
difference it must make to him whether
he falls sick in a house or is seized in
the middle of a high road, up to his
knees in mud, under torrents of rain, and
loaded with a knapsack on his back;
even if he is in a camp he can soon be
sent to the next village, and will not
be entirely without medical assistance,
whilst on a march he must be for hours
without any assistance, and then be made
to drag himself along for miles as a
straggler. How many trifling illnesses
by that means become serious, how
many serious ones become mortal. Let
us consider how an ordinary march in
the dust, and under the burning rays of

38

ON WAR.

[book v.

a summer Bun may produce the most
excessive heat, in which state, suffering
from intolerable thirst, the soldier then
rushes to the fresh spring of water, to
bring back for himself sickness and
death.

It is not our object by these reflections
to recommend less activity in war ; the
instrument is there for use, and if the
use wears away the instrument that is
only in the natural order of things ; we
only wish to see every thing put in its
right place, and to oppose that theore>
tical bombast according to which tha
most astonishing surprises the most
rapid movements, the most incessant
activity cost nothing, and are painted as
rich mines which the indolence of the
general leaves unworked. It is very
much the same with these mines as with
those from which gold and silver are ob-
tained ; nothing is seen but the produce,
and no one asks about the value of the
work which has brought this produce to
light.

On long marches outside a theatre of
war, the conditions under which the
march is made are no doubt usually
easier, and the daily losses smaller,
but on that account men with the
slightest sickness are generally lost to
the army for some time, as it is difficult for
convalescents to overtake an army con-
stantly advancing.

Amongst the cavalry the number of
lame horses and horses with sore backs
rises in an increasing ratio, and amongst
the carriages many break down or
require repair. It never fails, therefore,
that at the end of a march of 100 miles or
more, an army arrives much weakened,
particularly as regards its cavalry and
train.

If such marches are necessary on the
theatre of war, that is under the eyes of
the enemy, then that disadvantage is
added to the other, and from the two
combined the losses with large masses
of troops, and under conditions otherwise

unfavourable may amount to something
incredible.

Only a couple of examples in order to
illustrate our ideas.

When Buonaparte crossed the Niemen
on 24th June, 1812, the enormous centre
of his army with which he subsequently
marched against Moscow numbered
801,000 men. At Smolensk, on the 15th
August, he detached 13,500, leaving, it is
to be supposed, 287,500. The actual state
of his army however at that date was
only 182,000; he had therefore lost
105,000.* Bearing in mind that up to
that time only two eng^ements to speak
of had taken place, one between Davoust
and Bragathion, the other between
Murat and Tolstoy-Osterman, we may
put down the losses of the French army
in action at 10,000 men at most, and
therefore the losses in sick and stragglers
within fifty-two days on a march of about
seventy miles direct to his front, amounted
to 95,000, that is a third part of the
whole army.

Three weeks later, at the time of the
battle of Borodino, the loss amounted to
144,000 (including the casualties in the
battle), and eight days after that again,
at Moscow, the number was 198,000. The
losses of this army in general were at the
commencement of the campaign at the
rate of y^^y daily, subsequently they rose
to -r^, and in the last period they in-
creased to ^ of the original strengdi.

The movement of Napoleon frx)m the
passage of the Niemen up to Moscow
certainly may be called a persistent one ;
still, we must not forget that it lasted
eighty-two days, in which time he only-
accomplished 120 miles, and that the
French army upon two occasions made
regular halts, once at Wilna for about
fourteen days, and the other time at
Witebsk for about eleven days, during
which periods many stragglers had time

* All these figures are taken from Chambray.
Yergl. Bd. yii. 2^ Auflage, { 80, ff.

CHAP, xm.]

CANTONMENTS.

39

to rejoin. This fourteen weeks' advance
was not made at the worst season of the
year, nor over the worst of roads, for
it was summer, and the roads along
which they marched were mostly sand.
It was the immense mass of troops
collected on one road, the want of suf-
ficient subsistence, and an enemy who
was on the retreat, but by no means in
flighty which were the adverse conditions.

Of the retreat of the French army
firom Moscow to the Niemen, we shaU say
nothing, but this we may mention, that
the Hussian army following them left
Kaluga 120,000 strong, and reached
Wilna with 30,000. Every one knows
how few men were lost in actual combats
during that period.

One more example from Bliicher's
campaign of 1813 in Silesia and Saxony,

a campaign very remarkable not for any
long march but for the amount of march-
ing to and fro. York's corps of Blucher'a
army began this campaign 16th August
about 40,000 strong, and was reduced to
12,000 at the battle of Leipsic, 19th Oc-
tober. The principal combats which this
corps fought at Goldberg, Lowenberg,
on the Katsbach, at Wartenburg, and
Mockem (Leipsic) cost it on the authority
of the best writers, 12,000 men. Accord-
ing to that their losses from other causes-
in eight weeks amounted to 16,000, or
two-ftfths of the whole.

We must, therefore, make up our minds
to great wear and tear of our own forces,
if we are to carry on a war rich in move-
ments, we must arrange the rest of our
plan accordingly, and above aU things
the reinforcements which are to follow.

CHAPTER XIIL

CANTONMENTS.

Ik the modem system of war cantonments
have become again indispensable, because
neither tents nor a complete military train
make an army independent of them. Huts
and open-air camps (bivouacs as they are
called), however far such arrangements
may be carried, can still never become the
usual way of locating troops without sick-
ness gaining the upper hand, and prema-
turely exhausting their strength, sooner or
later, according to the state of the weather
orclimate. Thecampaign inKussiain 1812
is one of the few in which, in a very
severe climate, the troops, during the six
months that it lasted hardly ever lay in
cantonments. But what was the conse-

quence of this extreme effqrt, which should
be called an extravagance, if that term
was not much more applicable to the
political conception of the enterprise !

Two things interfere with the occupa-
tion of cantonments — the proximity of
the enemy, and the rapidity of movement.
For these reasons they are quitted as
soon as the decision approaches, and can-
not be again taken up until the decision
is over.

In modem wars, that is, in all campaigns
during the last twenty-five years which oc-
cur to us at this moment, the military ele-
ment has acted with full energy. Nearly
all that was possible has generally been

40

ON WAR.

[book t.

done in tliem, as far as regards activity
and the utmost effort of force ; but all
these campaigns have been of short dura-
tion, they have seldom exceeded half a
year ; in most of them a few months suf-
ficed to bring matters to a crisiSi that is,
to a point where the vanquished enemy
saw himself compelled to sue for an ar-
mistice or at once for peace, or to a point
where, on the conqueror's part, the im-
petus of victory had exhausted itself.
During this period of extreme effort there
could be little question of cantonments,
for even in the victorious march of the
pursuer, if there was no longer any dan-
ger, the rapidity of movement made that
kind of relief impossible.

But when from any cause the course
of events is less impetuous, when a more
even oscillation and balancing of forces
takes place, then the housing of troops
must again become a foremost subject for
attention. This want has some influence
even on the conduct of war itself, partly
in this way, that we seek to gain more
time and security by a stronger system
of outposts, by a more considerable ad-
vanced guard thrown further forward ;
and partly in this way, that our measures
are governed more by the richness and
fertility of the country than by the tacti-
cal advantages which the ground affords
in the geometrical relations of lines and
points. A commercial town of twenty or
thirty thousand inhabitants, a road thickly
studded with large villages or flourishing
towns give such facilities for the assem-
bling in one position large bodies of
troops, and this concentration gives such
a freedom and such a latitude for move-
ment as fully compensate for the advan-
tages which the better situation of some
point may otherwise present.

On the form to be followed in arrang-
ing cantonments we have only a few ob-
servations to make, as this subject belongs
for the most part to tactics.

The housing of troops comes under
two heads, inasmuch as it can either be

the main point or only a secondary con*
sideration. If the disposition of the
troops in the course of a campaign is
regulated by grounds purely tactical and
strategical, and if, as is done more espe-
cially with cavaliy, they are directed for
their comfort to occupy the quarters
available in the vicinity of the point of
concentration of the army, then the quar-
ters are subordinate considerations and
substitutes for camps ; they must, there-
fore, be chosen within such a radius that
the troops can reach the point of assembly
in good time. But if an army takes up
quarters to rest and refresh, then the
housing of the troops is the main point,
and otiber measures, consequently also
the selection of the particular point of
assembly, will be influenced by that
object.

The first question for examination here
is as to the general form of tlie canton-
ments as a whole. The usual form is
that of a very long oval, a mere widen-
ing as it were of the tactical order of
battle. The point of assembly for the
army is in front, the head-quarters in
rear. Now these three arrangements
are, in point of fact, adverse, indeed
almost opposed, to the safe assembly of
the army on the approach of the enemy.

The more the cantonments form a
square, or rather a circle, the quicker the
troops can concentrate at one point, that
is the centre. The farther the place of
assembly is placed in rear, the longer the
enemy will be in reaching it, and, there-
fore, the more time is left us to assemble.
A point of assembly in rear of the can-
tonments can never be in danger. And,
on the other hand, the farther the head-
quarters are in advance, so much the
sooner reports arrive, therefore so much
the better is the commander informed of
everything. At the same time, the first
named arrangements are not devoid of
points which deserve some attention.

By the extension of cantonments in
width, we have in view the protection of

CHAP. XIU.]

CANTONMENTS.

41

the country which would otherwise be laid
under contributions by the enemy. But
this motive is neither thoroughly sound,
nor is it very important. It is only sound
as far as regards the country on the ex-
tremity of the wings, but does not apply
at all to intermediate spaces existing be-
tween separate divisions of the army, if
the quarters of those divisions are drawn
closer round their point of assembly, for
no enemy will then venture into those
intervals of space. And it is not very
important, because there are simpler
means of shielding the districts in our
vicinity from the enemy's requisitions
than scattering the army itself.

The placing of the point of assembly
in front is with a view to covering the
quarters, for the following reasons : —
In the first place, a body of troops, sud-
denly called to arms, always leaves be-
hind it in cantonments a tail of stragglers
— sick, baggage, provisions, etc., etc.—
which may easily fall into the enemy's
hands if the point of assembly is placed
in rear. In the second place, we have to
apprehend that if tha enemy with some
bodies of cavalry passes by the advanced
guard, or if it is defeated in any way, he
may fall upon scattered regiments or
battalions. If he encounters a force
drawn up in good order, although it is
weak, and in the end must be over-
powered, still he is brought to a stop,
and in that way time is gained.

As respects the position of the head-
quarters, it is generally supposed that it
cannot be made too secure.

According to these different considera-
tions, we may conclude that the best
arrangement for districts of cantonments
is where they take an oblong form, ap-
proaching the square or circle, have the
point of assembly in the centre, and the
head-quarters placed on the front line,
well protected by considerable masses of
troops.

What we have said as to covering of
the wings in treating of the disposition of

the army in general, applies here also ;
therefore corps detached from the main
body, right and left, although intended
to fight in conjunction with the rest, will
have particular points of assembly of their
own in the same line with the main body.

Now, if we reflect that the nature of
a country, on the one hand, by favour-
able features in the ground determines
the most natural point of assembly, and
on the other hand, My the positions of
towns and villages determines the most
suitable situation for cantonments, then
we must perceive how very rarely any
geometrical form can be decisive in
our present subject. But yet it was
necessary to direct attention to it, be-
cause, like all general laws, it affects
the generality of cases in a greater or less
degree.

What now remains to be said as to an
advantageous position for cantonments is
that they should be taken up behind
some natural obstacle of ground afford-
ing cover, whilst the sides next the enemy
can be watched by small but numerous
detached parties ; or they may be taken up
behind fortresses, which, when circum-
stances prevent any estimate being formed
of the strength of their garrisons, impose
upon the enemy a greater feeling of re-
spect and and caution.

We reserve the subject of winter quar-
ters, covered by defensive works for a
separate article.

The quarters taken up by troops on a
march differ from those called standing
cantonments in this way, that, in order
to save the troops from unnecessary
marching, cantonments on a march are
taken up as much as possible along the
lines of march, and are not at any con-
siderable distance on either side of these
roads ; if their extension in this sense does
not exceed a short day's march, the ar-
rangement is not one at all unfavourable
to the quick concentration of the army.

In all cases in presence of the enemy,
according to the technical phrase in use.

42 ON :

that IB in all Cftses where there is no con-
aiderable interval between the advance
(fuards of the two armies reBpecttvely, the
extent of the cantonmeata and the time
required to aBeemble the army determine
the strength and position of the advanced
guard and outpoatB ; but when these must
be suited to the enemy end circumstances,
then, on the contrary, the extent of the
(»ntonments must depend on the time
which we can count upon by the resist-
ance of the advance guard.

In the third* chapter of this booh, ve
have stated how this resistance, in the
case of an advanced corps, may be
estimated. From the time of that resist-
ance we must deduct the time required
for transmission of reports and getting
the men under arms, and the remainder
only is tho time available for assembling
at the point of concentration.

We shall conclude here also by estab-
lishing our ideas in the form of a result,
such as ia usual under ordinary circum-
stances. If the distance at which the
advanced guard is detached is the same
as the radiua of the cantonmenta, and
the point of assembly is fixed in the
centre of the cantonments, the time
which is gained by checking the enemy's
advance would be av^Uble for the trans-
mission of intelligence and getting under
arms, and would in most cases he sufK-
cient, even although the communication
is not made by means of signals, cannon-
shots, etc., but simply by relays of order-
lies, the only really sure method.

With an advanced guard pushed
forward three miles in &ont, our
cantonments might therefore cover a
space of thirty square miles. In a
moderately-peopled country there would
be 10,000 houses in this apace, which
for an army of 60,000, after deducting
the advanced guard, would be iour men
to a billet, therefore very comfortable
quarters ; and for an army of twice the

• 8th Chap, f— TB.

FAR. [book t.

strength nine men to a billet, therefore
still not very close quarters. On the
other hand, if the advanced guard ia
only one mile in &ont, we could only
occupy a space of four square miles ;
for although the time gained does not
diminish exactly in proportion as the
distance of tho advanced guard dimin-
ishes, and even with a distance of one
mile we may still calculate on a gain of
six hours, yet the necessity for caution
increases when the enemy is so close.
But in such a space an army of 50,000
men could only nnd partial accommoda-
tion, even in a very thickly populated
country.

From all this we see what an impor-
tant part is played here by great or at
least considerable towns, which afford
convenience for sheltering 10,000 or even
20,000 men almost at one point.

From this result it follows that, if we
are not very dose to the enemy, and have
a suitable advanced guard we might re-
main in cantonments, even if the enemy
is concentrated, as Frederick the Great
did at Breslau in the beginning of the
year 1762, and Buonaparte at Witehsk
in 1812. But although by preserving a
right distance and by suitable arrange-
ments we have no reason to fear not
being able to assemble in time, even op-
posite an enemy who is concentrated, yet
we must not forget that an army engaged
in assembling itself in all haste can do
nothing else in that time ; that it is there-
fore, for a time at least, not in a con-
dition to avail itself in an instant of for-
tuitous opportunities, which deprives it
of the greater part of its really efficient
power. The consequence of this is, that
an army should only break itself up com-
pletely in cantonments under some one
or other of the three following cases :

1. If the enemy does the same.

2. If the condition of the troops makes
it unavoidable.

3. If the more immediate object with
the army is completely limited to the

CHAP, xrv.]

SUBSISTENCE.

48

maintenance of a strong position, and
therefore the only point of importance is
concentrating the troops at that point in
good time.

The campaign of 1815 gives a yery
remarkable example of the assembly of
an army from cantonments. General
Ziethen, with Bliicher's advanced guard,
30,000 men, was posted at Charleroi, only
two miles from Sombreff, the place ap-
pointed for the assembly of the army.
The farthest cantonments of the army
were about eight miles from Sombreff,
that is, on the one side beyond Ciney,
and on the other near Li^ge. Notwith-
standing this, the troops cantoned about
Ciney were assembled at Ligny several
hours before the battle began, and those
near Li^ge (Bulow's Corps) would have
been also, had it not been for accident
and faulty arrangements in the commu-
nication of orders and intelligence.

Unquestionably, proper care for the
security of the Prussian army was not
taken; but in explanation we must say
that the arrangements were made at a
time when the French army was still
dispersed over widely extended canton-
ments, and that the real fault consisted
in not altering them the moment the
first news was received that the enemy's
troops were in movement, and that Buo-
naparte had joined the army.

Still it remains noteworthy that the
Prussian army was able in any way tp

concentrate at Sombreff before the attack
of the enemy. Certainly, on the night
of the 14th, that is, twelve hours before
Ziethen was actually attacked, Bltlcher
received information of the advance of
the enemy, and began to assemble his
army; but on the 15th at nine in the
morning, Ziethen was already hotly en-
gaged, and it was not until the same
moment that General Thielman at Ciney
first received orders to march to Namur.
He had therefore then to assemble his di-
visions, and to march six and a half miles
to SombreflF, which he did in 24 hours.
General Bidow would also have been able
to arrive about the same time, if the order
had reached him as it should have done.

But Buonaparte did not resolve to
make his attack on Ligny until two in
the afternoon of the 16th. The appro-
hension of having Wellington on the one
side of him, and BlUcher on the other, in
other words, the disproportion in the
relative forces, contributed to this slow-
ness ; still we see how the most resolute
conmiander may be detained by the cau-
tious feeling of the way which is always
unavoidable in cases which are to a cer-
tain degree complicated.

Some of the considerations here raised
are plainly more tactical than strategic
in their nature; but we have prefer-
red rather to encroach a little l3ian to
run the ri^ of not being sufficiently
explicit.

CHAPTER XIV.

SUBSISTENCE.

This subject has acquired much greater
importance in modem warfare from two
causes in particular. First, because the
armies in general are now much greater

than those of the middle ages, and even
those of the old world; for, although
fomerly armies did appear here and there
which equalled or even surpassed modem

44

ON WAIL

[book t.

ones in size, still these were only rare
and transient occurrences, whilst in mo-
dem military history, since the time of
Louis XIY., armies have always been
very strong in number. But the second
cause is still more important, and belongs
entirely to modem times. It is the very
much closer inner connection which our
wars have in themselves, the constant
state of readiness for battle of the belli-
gerents engaged in carrying them on.
Almost all old wars consist of single
unconnected enterprises, which are sepa-
rated from each odier by intervals during
which the war in reality either completely
rested, and only still existed in a political
sense, or when the armies at least had re-
moved so far from each other that each,
without any care about the army opposite,
only occupied itself with its ovm wants.

Modem wars, that is, the wars which
have taken place since the Peace of West-
phalia, have, through the efforts of re-
spective governments, taken a more
systematic connected form ; the military
object, in general, predominates every-
where, and demands also that arrange-
ments for subsistence shall be on an ade-
quate scale. Certainly there were long
periods of inaction in the wars of the
seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, al-
most amounting to a cessation of war;
these are the regular periods passed in
cantonments; still even those periods
were subordinate to the military object ;
they were caused by the inclemency of
the season, not by any necessity arising
out of the subsistence of the troops, and
as they regularly terminated with the
return of summer, therefore we may eay
at fiJl events uninterrupted action was the
rule of war during the fine season of
the year.

As the transition from one situation or
method of action to another always takes
place gradually so it was in die case
before us. In the wars against Louis
XIY. the allies used still to send their
troops into winter cantonments in distant

provinces in order to subsist them the
more easily; in the Silesian war that
was no longer done.

This systematic and connected form of
carrying on war only became possible
when states took regular troops into their
service in place of the feudal armies.
The obligation of the feudal law was
then commuted into a fine or contribu-
tion : personal service either came to an
end, enlistment being substituted, or it
was only continued amongst the lowest
classes, as the nobility regarded the fur-
nishing a quota of men (as is still done
in Kussia and Hungary) as a kind of
tribute, a tax in men. In every case, as
we have elsewhere observed, armies be-
came henceforward, an instrument of the
cabinet, their principal basis being the
treasury or the revenue of the govern-
ment.

Just the same kind of thing which took
place in the mode of raising and keep-
ing up an establishment of troops could
not but follow in the mode of subsisting
them. The privileged classes having
been released from the first of these ser-
vices on payment of a contribution in
money, the expense of the latter could
not be again imposed on them quite so
easily. The cabinet and the treasury
had therefore to provide for the subsistence
of the army, and could not allow it to be
maintained in its own country at the ex-
pense of the people. Administrations
were therefore obliged to look upon the
subsistence of the army as an iJfair for
which they were specially responsible.
The subsistence thus became more diffi-
cult in two ways : first, because it was an
affair belonging to government, and next
because the forces required to be per-
manently embodied to confront those
kept up in other states.

Thus arose a separate military clase
in the population, with an independent
organisation provided for its subsistence,
and carried out to the utmost possible
perfection.

CHAP. XIV. J

SUBSISTENCE.

45

Not only were stores of provisions col-
lected,either by purchase or by deliveries in
kind £rom the landed estates (Dominial-
lieferungen), consequently from distant
points, and lodged in magazines, but they
were also forwarded from these by means
of special wagons, baked near the quarters
of the troops in ovens temporarily es-
tablished, and from thence again carried
away at last by the troops, by means of
another system of transport attached to
the army itself. We take a glance at
this system not merely from its being
characteristic of the military arrange-
ments of the period, but also because it
is a system which can never be entirely
done away ; some parts of it must con-
tinually reappear.

Thus military organisation strove per-
petually towards becoming more inde-
pendent of people and country.

The consequence was that in this man-
ner war became certainly a more syste-
matic and more regular affair, and more
subordinated to the military, that is the
political object ; but it was at the same
time also much straitened and impeded
in its movement, and infinitely weakened
in energy. For now an army was tied
to its magazines, limited to the working
powers of its transport service, and it
naturally followed that the tendency of
everything was to economise the subsist-
ence of the troops. The soldier fed on a
wretched pittance of bread, moved about
like a shadow, and no prospect of a
change for the better comforted him
xmder his privations.

Whoever treats this miserable way of
feeding soldiers as a matter of no moment,
and points to what Frederick the Great
did with soldiers subsisted in this manner,
only takes a partial view of the matter.
The power of enduring privations is one
of the finest virtues in a soldier, and
without it no army is animated with the
true military spirit ; but such privation
must be of a temporary kind, commanded
by the force of circumstances, and not the

consequence of a wretchedly bad system,
or of a parsimonious abstract calculation
of the smallest ration that a man can
exist upon. When such is the case the
powers of the men individually will
always deteriorate physically and morally.
What Frederick the Great managed to
do with his soldiers cannot be taken as a
standard for us, partly because he was
opposed to those who pursued a similar
system, partly because we do not know
how much more he might have effected
if he had been able to let his troops live
as Buonaparte allowed his whenever cir-
cumstances permitted.

The feeding of horses by an artificial
system of supply is, however, an experi-
ment which has not been tried, because
forage is much more difficult to provide
on account of its bulk. A ration for a
horse weighs about ten times as much as
one for a man, and the number of horses
with an army is more than one-tenth the
number of men, at present it is one-
fourth to one-third, and formerly it was
one-third to one-half, therefore the
weight of the forage required is three,
four, or five times as much as that of the
soldier's rations required for the same
period of time; on this account the
shortest and most direct means were
taken to meet the wants of an army in
this respect, that is by foraging expedi-
tions. Now these expeditions occasioned
great inconvenience in the conduct of
war in other ways, first by making it a
principal object to keep the war in the
enemy's country ; and next because they
made it impossible to remain very long
in one part of the country. However,
at the time of the Silesian war, foraging
expeditions were much less frequent,
they were found to occasion a much
greater drain upon the country, and
much &:reater waste than if the require-
mentAere -tiefied by means o^f re-
quisitions and imposts.

When the French Revolution sud-
denly brought again upon the war

46

ON WAR.

[book v.

stage a national army, the means which
governments could command were found
insufficient, and the whole system of
war, which had its origin in the limited
extent of these means, and found again
its security in this limitation, fell to
pieces, and of course in the downfall
of the whole was included that of the
branch of which we are now speaking,
the system of subsistence. Without
troubling themselves about magazines,
and stiU less about such an organisation
as the artificial clockwork of which we
have spoken, by which the different
divisions of the transport service went
round like a wheel, the leading spirits of
the revolution sent their soldiers into the
field, forced their generals to fight,- sub-
sisted, reinforced Uieir armies, and kept
alive the war by a system of exaction,
and of helping themselves to all they
required by robbery and plunder.

Between these two extremes the war
under Buonaparte, and against him,
preserved a sort of medium, that is to
say, it just made use of such means as
suited it best amongst all that were
available; and so it will be also in
future.

The modem method of subsisting
troops, that is, seizing every thing
which is to be found in the country
without regard to meum et tuum may be
carried out in four difierent ways : that
is, subsisting on the inhabitant, contri-
butions which the troops themselves
look after, general contributions and
magazines. All four are generally ap-
plied together, one generally prevailing
more than the others : still it sometimes
happens that only one is applied entirely
by itsel£

1. — Living .on the inhahitantf or on the
community, which is the same thing.

If we bear in mind that in a commimity
consisting even as it does in groat towns,

of consumers only, there must always be
provisions enough to last for several
days, we may easily see that the most
densely populated place can furnish food
and quarters for a day for about as many
troops as there are inhabitants, and for
a less number of troops for several days
without the necessity of any particular
previous preparation. In towns of con-
siderable size this gives a very satis-
factory result, because it enables us to
subsist a large force at one point. But
in smaller towns, or even in villages, the
supply would be far from sufficient ; for
a population of 3,000 or 4,000 in a
square mile which would be large in
such a space, would only suffice to feed
3,000 or 4,000 soldiers, and if the whole
mass of troops is great they would have
to be spread over such an extent of
country at this rate as would hardly be
consistent with other essential points.
But in level countries, and even in small
towns, the quantity of those kinds of
provisions which are essential in war is
generally much greater; the supply of
bread which a peasant has is generally
adequate to the consumption of his
famUy for several, perhaps from eight
to fourteen days ; meat can be obtained
daily, vegetable productions are gener-
ally forthcoming in sufficient quantity to
last till the following crop. Therefore
in quarters which have never been occu-
pied there is no difficulty in subsisting
troops three or four times the nimibor of
the inhabitants for several days, which
again is a very satisfactory result. Ac-
cording to this, where the population is
about 2,000 or 3,000 per square mile,
and if no large town is included, a
column of 30,000 would require about
four square miles, which would be a
length of side of two miles. Therefore
for an army of 90,000, which we may
reckon at about 75,000 combatants, if
marching in three columns contiguous
to each other, wo should require to take
up a front six miles in breadth in ease

CHAP, XlV.]

SUBSISTENCE.

47

three roads could be found within that
breadth.

If several columns follow one another
into these cantonments, then special
measures must be adopted by the civil
authorities, and in that way there can be
no great difficulty in obtaining all that
is required for a day or two more.
Therefore if the above 90,000 are fol-
lowed the day after by a like number,
even these last woxdd suffer no want;
this makes up the large number of
150,000 combatants.

Forage for the horses occasions still
less difficulty, as it neither requires
grinding nor baking, and as there must
be forage forthcoming in sufficient quan-
tity to last the horses in the country
until next harvest, therefore even where
there is little stall-feeding, still there
should be no want, only the deliveries of
forage should certainly be demanded
from the community at large, not from
the inhabitants individually. Besides, it
is supposed that some attention is, of
course, paid to the nature of the country
in making arrangements for a march, so
as not to send cavalry mostly into places
of commerce and manufactures, and
into districts where there is no forage.

The conclusion to be drawn from this
hasty glance is, therefore, that in a
moderately populated country, that is, a
country of from 2,000 to 3,000 souls per
square mile, an army of 150,000 com-
batants may be subsisted by the inhabi-
tants and community for one or two days
within such a narrow space as will not
interfere with its concentration for battle,
that is, therefore, that such an army
can be subsisted on a continuous march
without magazines or other prepara-
tion.

On this result were based the enter-
prises of the French army in the revo-
lutionary war, and under Buonaparte.
They marched from the Adige to the
Lower Danube, and from the Bhine to the
Yifltula, with little means of subsistence

except upon the inhabitants, and without
ever suffering want. As their undertak-
ings depended on moral and physical
superiority, as they were attended with
certain results, and were never delayed
by indecision or caution, therefore their
progress in the career of victory was
generally that of an uninterrupted march.
If circumstances are less favourable,
if the population is not so great, or if
it consists more of artisans than agri-
culturists, if the soil is bad, the country
already several times overrun — then of
course the results will fall short of
what we have supposed. Still, we must
remember that if the breadth of the
front of a column is extended from two
miles to three, we get a superficial ex-
tent of country more than double in
size, that is, instead of four we command
nine square miles, and that this is still
an extent which in ordinary cases will
always admit of concentration for action ;
we see therefore that even under un-
favourable circumstances this method of
subsistence will still be always com-
patible with a continuous march.

But if a halt of several days takes
place, then great distress must ensue if
preparations have not been made before-
hand for such an event in other ways.
Now these preparatory measures are of
two kinds, and without them a consi-
derable army even now cannot exist.
The first is equipping the troops with
a wagon train, by means of which bread
or flour, as the most essential part of
their subsistence, can be carried with
them for a few, that is, for three or four
days ; if to this we add three or four
days' rations which the soldier himself
can carry, then we have provided what
is most indispensable in the way of
subsistence for eight days.

The second arrangement is that of a
regular commissariat, which whenever
there is a moment's halt gathers provi-
sions from distant localities, so that at
any moment we can pass over from, the

48

ON WAR.

BOOK V.

system of quartering on the inhabitants
to a different system.

Subsisting in cantonments has the im-
mense advantage that iKirdly any trans-
port is required, and that it is done in
the shortest time, but certainly it sup-
poses as a prior condition that canton-
ments can be provided for all the troops.

2. — Subsistence through exactions enforced
hy the troops themselves,

•

If a single battalion occupies a camp,
this camp may be placed in the vicinity
of some villages, and these may receive
notice to furnish subsistence; then the
method of subsistence would not differ
essentially from the preceding mode.
But, as is most usual, if the mass of troops
to be encamped at some one point is
much larger, there is no alternative but
to make a collection in common within
the circle of districts marked out for the
purpose, collecting sufficient for the sup-
ply of one of the parts of the army, a
brigade or division, and afterwards to
make a distribution from the common
stock thus collected.

The first glance shows that by such
a mode of proceeding the subsistence
of a large army would be a mat-
ter of impossibility. The collection made
£rom the stores in any given district
in the country will be much less than if
the troops had taken up their quarters
in the same district, for when thirty or
forty men take possession of a farmer's
house they can if necessary coUect the
last mouthful, but one officer sent with
a few men to collect provisions has neither
time nor means to hunt out aU the pro-
visions that may be stored in a house,
often also he has not the means of trans-
port; he will therefore only be able to col-
lect a small proportion of what is actually
forthcoming. Besides, in camps the troops
are crowded togetlier in such a manner at
one point, that the range of country from
which provisions can be collected in a

hurry is not of sufficient extent to Ornish
the whole of what is vequired. What
could be done in the way of supplying
30,000 men, within a circle of a mile in
diameter, or from an area of three or
four square miles ? Moreover it would
seldom be possible to collect even what
there is, for the most of the nearest ad-
jacent villages would be occupied by small
bodies of troops, who would not allow any-
thing to be removed. Lastly, by such a
measure there would be the greatest
waste, because some men would get more
than they required, whilst a great deal
would be lost, and of no benefit to any one.

The result is, therefore, that the sub-
sistence of troops by forced contributions
in this manner can only be adopted with
success when the bodies of troops are not
too large, not exceeding a division of
8,000 or 10,000 men, and even then it is
only to be resor